Martin
It was around the age of nine that Martin Sandoval discovered a shiny golden nugget in the cold silver waters of a local stream. Granted, it was but the size of a pebble, yet Martin was convinced that it was pure gold throughout, and was correspondingly thrilled. And who knows? Perhaps it was indeed pure gold.
Whatever the case, when he raised it up and watched it glint and glimmer in the sunlight, the tiny treasure had an immediate formative effect on Martin's mind, planting in him a seed that swiftly grew into a powerful desire: to seek out and take possession of rare and beautiful treasures.
At the time of his find, Martin had already developed a secretive streak, and so he revealed the treasure to no one, instead stashing it away in a small box he kept hidden behind a carefully loosened piece of skirting board in his room.
Over the course of numerous ensuing years, he hiked alone into the hills behind his home countless times, hoping to reprise the experience. Although he almost invariably returned home empty-handed, or at least having discovered nothing of any great interest, nonetheless nature yielded enough of its secrets to him that his enthusiasm never waned. This held true until the day our tale properly begins, when whatever minor deities watch over the efforts of amateur prospectors rewarded the now legally adult Martin with a true nonpareil.
Martin couldn't categorise the jewel-like stone he found that day - he had never seen or heard of such a creation - but he was instantly fascinated by its kaleidoscopic, multicoloured facetry, discernible even through obscuring waters. Just as it had with his golden pebble, the joy of taking possession sent a euphoria of hot blood rushing through his arteries.
His hand shaking with excitement, Martin raised the jewel out of the burbling stream, waded toward the bank and, once on dry land, lifted it up between thumb and forefinger for closer examination. It was then that his find displayed its most remarkable property. As the rising jewel intersected the line of sight between Martin and the westering sun, light streamed into it, broke into a million whirling facets of colour, then entered his eyes...
***
Later reflection could cast no clarity on the period of time between this event and the returning of consciousness to Martin's mind. His next memory was of standing in twilight, the hand holding the jewel still raised, the arm aching deeply and quivering with exhaustion. With a groan of pain, he let it fall to his side. The jewel slipped from his hand and fell to the river bank.
Confused, Martin looked about, trying to make sense of the alteration in his surroundings. The sun, he saw, had dipped below the horizon. A bare sliver of its disc remained visible. The light of day had faded to dusk.
What the double deuce? he thought. Where had the daylight gone? A fair measure of empty space had still been apparent between the sun and the horizon when he had lifted his find into the light.
He picked up the jewel again, this time with his left hand, carefully pocketed it, then squelched slowly and thoughtfully homeward through the gathering dark, massaging his aching arm, and pondering.
At last, in a flash of insight, it came to him.
Damn thing hypnotised me! he thought excitedly. Jehovah's jolly green junk! I must have lost... I don't know... two hours!
The subject of hypnotism had a particular significance for Martin. Some years earlier, he had taken more than a passing interest in that morally somewhat grubby practice. He had read widely in the subject, familiarised himself with a range of techniques, and had carefully considered how he might use his knowledge to influence the behaviour of others, to his own advantage.
Despite having achieved some moments of moderate success, he had at last given it away as substantially a waste of time and effort. Sure, you could get a subject to do a post-hypnotic trick or two, but you couldn't subvert their basic character. Worse, trying to convince people to agree to be hypnotised fairly quickly got you a reputation, first as a weirdo, then as a creep. No matter how subtle you tried to be, people seemed to know, instinctively, that you were up to something.
The youthful urge to hypnotise others generally seems motivated by a lust for power. Martin's had grown out of his dismal experiences with the opposite sex.
At around the age of thirteen, Martin had rapidly developed an unusually muscular libido, which in turn had naturally engendered a powerful desire for female companionship. Unfortunately for him, his best efforts at entering the mysterious universe of girls - and girlfriends - had resulted in a series of painful rejections. Why, he couldn't fathom: he had insufficient insight into his own social deficiencies to do so.
A low shrub lay in Martin's shadowed path. He kicked at it in frustration. It wasn't fair! What did they expect a lonesome, horny geek to do? Go steady with his dominant hand?
Upon reviewing this thought, Martin reflected sourly that he was effectively doing precisely that.
But now, he thought excitedly, with this jewel, any hypnotic subject would go sooo deep! Maybe deep enough to overcome the traditional limits of hypnotic influence. Maybe, nothing would lie outside the bounds of possibility. Nothing!
The very idea gave him a feeling akin to drunkenness, and it was in this inebriated condition that Martin reached a fateful decision: he resolved to make the attempt.
The obvious next question was, who should he choose as a subject?
The rest of the homeward trek he spent mentally reviewing the qualities and attributes of every female he could readily recall that had ever struck him as hot... or even moderately warm.
Martin hadn't yet made a firm decision as to the recipient of his mesmeric attentions when the dark bulk of his family home hove slowly into view, perched atop its solitary hillock, some miles outside the limits of the nearest town. Only the kitchen window was lit, making the house look like the head of a high-browed cyclops in Martin's imagination. He removed his sodden shoes and socks, leaving them on the back verandah, and quietly entered the house via the rear door.
Padding silently along the carpeted passage that led past the kitchen door, he swivelled his head to see who was home.
He was greeted by the sight of his older sister, Deborah, facing away from him, seated on a tall stool at the breakfast bar, head inclined forward, a steaming cup of something or other within easy reach to her right.
Martin came to a halt.
Probably flipping through social media on her phone, he surmised.
Deborah showed no sign of being aware of his presence. Accordingly, as was his wont with every attractive female who came within his field of vision when he thought he was unobserved, he paused to savour the delights of Deborah's body.
From this angle, the highlights of his appraisal were restricted to two in number: a bountiful cascade of hair displaying the colours of autumn leaves, hanging unbound to a point between her shoulder blades; and a deliciously female torso, narrowing at the waist, flaring out generously at the hips, forming an hourglass, a prominent devotional object to the male psyche. And oh, how he envied the fortunate barstool!
Deborah's frontal aspect was currently inaccessible to his eyesight... but not to his memory.
In the eye of Martin's mind, Deborah's seat began gradually to rotate, until it had passed through all the degrees of the compass. He visualised every aspect of the slowly turning Deborian landscape, maybe even better than Deborah herself could have.
Imagine the most beautiful young female you know of, and double it. Now you have some notion of how Martin thought of his sister. Never mind the details; suffice it to say, Martin found her fucking gorgeous.
Even better, she was a sight that never grew stale. Every time he conducted his appraisal was like the first time to Martin, though this configuration of Deborah had graced the world for several years.
Prior to the bountiful blossoming of her body, Deborah had existed in a less curvaceous form. During that time, she had been the closest thing to a real friend the socially inept Martin had ever known.
Things had changed once Deborah had passed through the portals of puberty. She had done so naturally and gracefully, like a juvenile peach swelling into fragrant, tawny succulence. At the same time, the easy affection she had displayed toward him altered to a slightly distant politeness. Once he had been her confidant. Now no more. He didn't understand why she no longer wanted to play with him, spend time with him. He only knew that it hurt. Effectively, Martin had become friendless in the world.
Martin's own entry into adolescence had taken place some two years afterward. In his case, the word 'graceful' applied less than the phrase 'head-on collision.' Wispy hairs sprouted sparsely on his face, in odd locations. His limbs elongated disproportionately. A croaking amphibian took up residence in his throat. There were other unsavoury phenomena.
This state of affairs persisted for several ungainly years, after which Martin's discordant physique reluctantly began to metamorphose into something closer to harmony and sightliness.
It was when Martin had been at his least prepossessing that, tormented by loneliness, he had made a clumsy attempt to return his relationship with Deborah to its former closeness, by involving her in his exploration of hypnotism. In fact, she had been the most successful of his hypnotic subjects.
