Synesthesia

I ask her name. "Short for synesthesia," she says, and looks up at me. She’s itching to explain, so I give her the opening. She says it means the crossing of senses—smelling colors, tasting sounds. Cute idea. I’ve got another one in mind. The wooden horse bites into her cunt. Her own body weight does the rest. She rocks, trying to shift the pressure, but the cane slaps across her tits and stomach and the tears start fast. Soon she’s hanging, stretched between floor and ceiling, ropes cinched so tight her blood swells the exposed skin, every inch drawn tight and raw. Tiny clips grip her nipples, serrated teeth sinking deeper as weights are added one by one. Between her legs a vibrator thrums, steady, relentless. Pain and heat twist together until her thighs shake and squeeze around the buzzing plastic. A single tear tracks down her cheek. She can’t decide if she’s about to come or break. Not the dictionary version of synesthesia, but close enough for tonight.