I ask her about her name. “It’s short for Synesthesia”, she says, and pauses, looking up at me. I can tell she’s just itching to give the definition, so I play along and ask. She says it means the blurring of the senses. She’s thinking smelling colors and feeling sounds. I have a different mixture of sensations planned. The hard edge of the wooden horse presses painfully into her cunt as she struggles and her crotch bears the entire weight of her body. She tries to hold out, but the cane stinging her breasts and abdomen brings tears welling up almost immediately. Soon after, she’s stretched up on her toes from floor to ceiling and wrapped so tight that the pressure forces her blood into the exposed flesh, making the skin in those areas taut and sensitive. Tiny clips with serrated teeth to bite into and hold their grip as weight after weight is added. A vibrator wedged between her legs performs its function and a crude mixture of pain and pleasure begins to play out in her body. She squeezes her thighs together and squirms. A teardrop rolls down her cheek. She doesn’t know whether to come or cry. It’s not textbook synesthesia, perhaps, but it’s good enough for me.
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