#deep-sea-diving

Sinnerman sent a video

The footage begins with a few seconds of nothing, except for a view of a plain, cream-coloured wall. Sir’s just told me he’s starting the recording, his phone mounted on a stand that holds it up to roughly chest height. I haven’t quite mustered the nerve to step into view yet, and his snide little smirk from behind the camera isn’t helping.

But soon enough I come bounding into frame, audible jingling sounds accompanying every big springy step I take, and spin to face the camera with a broad beaming smile on my flushed face. Planting one hand on my hip, I raise the other and give a cheerful wave to the camera.

“Good morning, everybody! April Fools from the April Fool,” I proclaim in my best over-the-top, ‘children’s TV presenter’ voice. “I’m April Showers, and I’m your entertainment for today. Do you like my uniform? It’s just perfect for me, isn’t it?”

I gesture to my outfit, a stereotypical jester’s costume. An obnoxiously bright-coloured polyester monstrosity of a bodysuit, with decorative patterns split down the middle, switching sides on different parts of my body. My left leg, the right half of my torso, and the long, floppy horn protruding from the left side of my cap, are all chequered red and black, while my other horn and leg are striped blue and yellow, and the left of my torso is plain azure with a custard-coloured sleeve.

The collar of the costume has long points that stretch out past my shoulders, each alternating between red (a lighter shade than the crimson chequers) and yellow. My skirt is essentially the same, except red and blue, and I’ve got long slender shoes on my feet that taper to points - the left blue, the right red. Little brass bells hang from my sleeves, and from the tips of my cap horns, my collar and skirt points, and my shoes, making it impossible to move without making a noise. And, although it’s very difficult to see in the footage, there’s the smallest bulge between my legs, where the hilt of Sir’s cock protrudes from my pussy and pushes against the material holding it in place.

I pirouette on one pointed foot to show off my degrading get-up in full, crying out, “Look at me, everybody! I look as stupid as I am!” Spinning to a stop facing the camera again, I let my sole slam to the floor again, and shoot the camera one brief look of consternation, breaking character for the briefest moment, my chipper smile crumpling a little with sheer shame, my eyes pleading with my viewers.

The guys in the hypnokink Discord server Sir and I joined last summer - to which this video is going to be posted later - probably know us well enough by now to guess what’s going on in my head. They can tell how horny I am from how I’m humiliating myself, and how helpless I am to stop, and the dozen pairs of eyes I feel watching me. (And from the dildo inching inside me with every tiny movement, although they might not have picked up on that.) And none of them will have any sympathy for my plight. They’ll revel in my ridiculous attire. They’ll delight in my self-degradation, and my discomfort. They’ll get off on my performance, my powerlessness, and my arousal. Knowing that - and imagining them touching themselves to the sight of my buffoonery - is only adding to my emotional disarray.

I want to hide my face, to turn and run from the room, to tear off my ridiculous outfit. But the compulsion to obey Sir, and to humiliate myself, is simply too powerful.

My beseeching expression only lasts a second before I continue my ridiculous routine, giving the camera a wide-eyed, exaggerated pantomime gasp as my fingers find a button on each side of my torso. “And what are these?!” Undoing the buttons, I flip up the flaps covering my chest and pop out my breasts, shouting, “Ta-da!! Look what I found!” I begin shaking them in the direction of the camera, chanting, “Jiggle jiggle jiggle! Bouncy bouncy bouncy! I’m a silly tit, look at my silly tits!”

Sir is heard for the first time now - he’s been keeping quiet behind the phone stand, but he can’t help letting out a low chuckle at this point. I stare pleadingly across at him as I keep fondling myself for the camera, burning with embarrassment and more than a little indignation. I mean, if he had to make me act out this demeaning pantomime, couldn’t he at least make me oblivious to how horribly humiliating it was? Why couldn’t he turn me into Piss, taking away my usual inhibitions and shame...?

The answer is obvious, crossing my mind as soon as it poses the question. He wants me aware. He wants me to feel this. He wants me to live through the indignity of this, to experience every ego-wilting emotion in real time, to soak in the shame and feel it drip back out. That’s the whole point of his plan - and it’s very much working.

“I’m a dumb little April Fool, my boobs are bigger than my brain,” I tell my audience matter-of-factly, even as my face contorts, the weight of my own mortification crushing me, making my voice tremble and my cheeks glow and my pussy salivate. I spin around again, bend over, and wave my striped-and-chequered bum at the camera, giving each cheek a squeeze and a few slaps. Then I straighten and face front again.

“I’m a brainless wind-up toy,” I announce merrily, marching on the spot just like I was trained to in army cadets. (This only makes the dildo thrust more insistently inside me, and man does it feel weird to be fucked while marching). “I’m an obedient toy soldier. I do whatever I’m told. I’m an object with no free will. I’m just here to entertain.”

I pull my best ahegao for a few seconds, crossing my eyes and dangling my tongue as far down my chin as it would go. Then, breathing in shakily, I reach for my tits once more. “Pinch,” I squeak, as I seize each nipple between thumb and index finger. “Punch...” I ball one hand into a fist and give myself a light bop on the head, jerking it to one side and letting my eyeballs roll in their sockets like marbles. Smiling dazedly, I conclude in a sing-song tone, “First of the month!”

I’m clearly throbbing at this point, my entire body blushing down to the bone. I’m a nuclear rod, radiating shameful lust as I jiggle and jingle for the camera. And I haven’t even performed the most profoundly degrading part of all.

Somehow still finding the resolve to keep my eyes on the phone, I start to sing - which I find embarrassing anyway, even without considering the lyrics. Adopting a teapot shape, my left hand planted on my hip while the other’s raised palm up in the air, I begin, “I’m a little sexpot, sweet and dumb.” I lean forwards slightly and point at my face. “Fuck my mouth and fill it with cum.”

Spinning around again, I bend over and plant my feet wide apart, placing a palm on the wall to brace myself. Staring over my shoulder at the camera, I reach back between my spread legs with my free hand and trace my fingertips over the surface of the bodysuit, nudging my dildo and feeling it shift within me in response. “When you bend me over, hear me grunt, ‘Take me deep in my hot, wet cunt’!”

I hold the pose for a few seconds, breathing heavily as I fiddle with the sex toy through my tights, giving the audience my best fuck-me eyes over my shoulder. Then I suddenly switch to a big beaming smile again, turning to face forwards once more. “Happy April Fool’s Day, everyone! Remember, if you know an April Fool like me, play a prank on them! It’s easy, we’re so stupid!” I grab my tits and give them one more vigorous jiggle, before doing a big star-jump while shouting, “Hooray!”

***

Sinnerman sent a video

The next clip begins seconds later, but I’ve fully broken character already, clapping both hands over my reddened face and retreating into my crushing shame. Not left or right, out of frame, but backwards, shrinking against the wall, so anyone watching can still see me cringing and squirming. Almost as if I want them to...

Sir saunters into view, approaching me casually. He’s dressed normally, his dark T-shirt and comfy shorts a sharp contrast to my daft, colourful costume. “Keeping it rolling for some BTS,” he explains, grinning wryly. “I have to imagine they’ll enjoy these reactions.”

My reply is a plaintive noise of protest as I cringe even harder, as if trying to burrow into the wall. Chuckling, he grips my shoulder and turns me back around, hooking his other arm around my wrists and gently tugging my hands away from my face. I splutter indignantly, giving him a look of chagrin as he places his hands on my waist as if to steady me, firmly keeping me facing towards him. The message was clear - there’s no hiding from him, or from my own humiliation. I have to face him, and our audience.

“Thoughts? Feelings?” he snickers. “This is a safe space.”

“Yeah, right,” I grumble, visibly struggling to stop the corners of my mouth twitching upwards. “Never been in a safe space where I had to call myself a silly tit before.”

He takes that as an invitation to start playing with my boobs, jiggling them up and down in his hands. “A silly tit with silly tits,” he reminds me, as if I could’ve possibly forgotten. “I’m so glad you remembered everything I wanted you to say...!”

My blush, constant throughout both clips, deepens as I can’t help recalling all the demeaning phrases I’ve just parroted for him. “‘Bigger than my brain’,” I mutter, shooting a mutinous glance at his hands on my breasts. “They’re not even that big...”

“My point exactly,” he replies mischievously, earning another strangled sound of complaint from me. “They are lovely, though. And every time I squeeze them, you make the sound of a horn honking.”

My eyes widen. “Oh no, c’mon,” I plead, “that’s so - haw-heh! Awwww...” I bow my head, wishing I could muster the willpower to wriggle free of his clutches, or to cover my radioactive face again.

“Haw-heh!” I yelp again, as his fingers sink into my tit flesh again. I can’t help bursting into giggles at this point, overcome with the degradation and powerlessness and hotness of it all. Sir’s sniggering too, as he keeps fondling me, honking my breasts twice more. Each time I interrupt my mirth with another loud squawk, it only makes me laugh harder.

Finally, he gives me enough time to recover from my hysteria, to regain my composure as much as I’m ever going to. “Such a good wind-up toy,” he beams, which isn’t helping with the whole ‘regaining my composure’ thing. “I’m proud of you for acting that out. You performed it so well, and remembered all your lines, and you held off all the pathetic whimpering and squirming til afterwards. Very impressive.”

Glowering even as I shiver with pleasure at his words, I reply, “Not like I had any choice, with it all hypnotised into me. It’s not like I could resist...”

He looks nonplussed. “But you’re not - oh.” His eyebrows shoot up, his gaze fixed on me intently, his expression more astonished by the moment. “Oh, wow. Really? You really thought...”

“What?”

“You thought I hypnotised you to do all that?”

You can practically see my stomach flip. My mouth drops open. I start to shake my head in disbelief, in denial, unable to accept what his question implies. “But - but you must have done,” I stammer desperately. “I - I have to be hypnotised! I mean, ’cos - ’cos, otherwise -”

“Otherwise,” Sir says with a wide, wicked smile, “that means you just did as you were told, without needing to be hypnotised.”

“But - noooo...”

“It means, I asked you to do something super dumb and degrading, something profoundly humiliating... and you did it.”

He steps closer to me, and despite our similar heights he seems to tower over me (from my perspective as well as the camera’s). “Without hesitation. Without protest. Without resistance.” Reaching up with an outstretched index finger, he taps my chin to punctuate each word as he says, “Without... being... hypnotised.”

“N-nooooo!” I wail, as he lowers his hands back to my chest. “That - that can’t be - how haw-heh! Hngh - how is that possible?! I felt like I was - like I had no control, like you’d hy-haw-heh - stoppit!” I actually stomp my foot a little, pouting at him as he openly laughs at me, but I still don’t - can’t - pull away from his grasp.

“I can assure you, that wasn’t a suggestion,” he tells me gleefully. “This is just the point you’ve reached. This is how thoroughly brainwashed you are. Yeah, you got this way through months upon months of hypnosis, moulding you, and reshaping you, and conditioning you, to the point where you’d do this. But you’re not under the influence of any triggers or suggestions right now. You haven’t been hypnotised at all today. I just told you to put on the costume, and perform the routine for me, and you did it. Like the well-trained slave you are. With blushing, and whining, and squirming, sure - but without any resistance.”

I shudder as the implications of that start to dawn upon me. If Sir doesn’t even need to hypnotise me any more, or use any of my long-term triggers - if he can just command me to embarrass the hell out of myself, and I’ll do as I’m told, unwaveringly following whatever instructions he gives me - then what does that mean for us? He has absolute, 100% control of me now. He can make me do anything, at any time, for any reason. I’m his slave now, his puppet, his toy, truly and totally, my free will a thing of the past, replaced by irresistible mental strings that he can pull whenever and however he wants.

His next words seem to confirm my thoughts. “Your training, your conditioning, it’s done now. It’s complete. I don’t even need to hypnotise you any more. I still will, because we both love it, but I don’t need to. You don’t need to be hypnotised to obey me. You just do as you’re told now. Naturally, automatically, compulsively. Whatever, whenever, however humiliating, you just... do it. Isn’t that right, my toy soldier?”

“Yes, Sir,” I murmur meekly.

“What will you do for me, April Showers?”

“Whatever you say,” I blurt out. “Whenever, wherever, however humiliating, I’ll just do it. I do as I’m told, naturally, automatically, compulsively. You have full control of me. I’m your property, your plaything, your puppet, your slavegirl, your wind-up toy. I have no free will, it’s all gone. You don’t even have to hypnotise me any more, because I’m a good toy and good toys obey...”

He smiles triumphantly. “Good girl. Good toy. Good little April Fool.”

He honks my tits one last time (and I respond with one more honk of my own), pinches my nipples, gives each boob a hard slap from below, and then pulls me into a cuddle, the abrupt movement ringing the bells all over me. I hang limply in his embrace, shellshocked and dumbstruck, staring into space with my chin on his shoulder, his palm running over my back.

“This is a joke, isn’t it?” I mumble eventually, just loudly enough for the camera to pick up. “An April Fool’s prank. I am hypnotised... right?”

You can’t hear it in the footage, but his reply is a wordless snigger in my ear - which is still covered, and therefore slightly muffled, by my ridiculous horned, floppy cap. That’s all the answer I need. It tells me exactly what I need to know, confirming what I already suspect.

It doesn’t matter. Whether my will really has been utterly broken, or whether this was all just an elaborate hypnotic scenario... the result is the same. I’m his obedient toy soldier. His personal entertainer. His pliable, powerless puppet. His convenient cock holster.

His April Fool, who exists to serve and amuse him - all year round.

As I’m coming to terms with that awful, wonderful, absolutely molten hot epiphany, Sir unwraps his arms from around me and gently leans me against the wall, before scurrying towards the camera, staying in frame as he reaches past to press stop on the recording. “And that’s a wrap on April Showers,” he cackles softly.

The video ends there, freezing on an image of me slumped upright in the background, a thunderstruck expression on my face as I process how totally fucking cooked I am, and a close-up of Sir giving the camera a gremlin grin.