Synesthesia

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I ask her about her name. “It’s brief for Synesthesia”, she says, and pauses, looking up at me. I can tell she’s just itching to give the definition, so I have fun along and ask. She says it means the blurring of the senses. She’s thinking odorous colors and sensing sounds. I have a different combo of sensations planned. The hard verge of the wooden pony presses badly into her gash as she fights and her pubes cubs the whole weight of her body. She attempts to hold out, but the crop nibbling her baps and abdomen brings tears welling up nearly immediately. Shortly after, she’s opened up up on her toes from floor to ceiling and packaged so cock-squeezing that the strain forces her blood into the exposed flesh, making the flesh in those areas tight and sensitive. Tiny clothespins with serrated teeth to nibble into and hold their take hold of as weight after weight is added. A massager wedged inbetween her gams performs its function and a crude combo of anguish and delight begins to have fun out in her body. She squashes her hips together and squirms. A teardrop flips down her cheek. She doesn’t know whether to come or cry. It’s not textbook synesthesia, perhaps, but it’s fine enough for me.