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Click, click, click, click.
The silver balls rocked backwards and then forwards again, meeting in the middle with a gentle click. “As you can see,” said the toymaker, gently taking the outside balls and pulling them out to either side, “it’s run without charge. Kinetic energy, you see. Science.” Bushy white eyebrows raised, light blue eyes flickering over the face of the well dressed business man opposite him. He cleared his throat. “Ah, but you aren’t here to be taken to school, of course.”
“Most things these days run on a charger,” the man offered, sinking down into a chair beside the desk and leaning forwards to inspect the display at a closer angle.
“Ah, well. I must say that I rather prefer the old-fashioned way of things.”
Without the click of the weighted balls to mask the noise, the sound of moans lifted from the display. It was faint, of course. The micros were stuffed perfectly full, with heavy silver balls kept twice inside of their otherwise slender frames, once in the anus and again in their heavy, taught bellies.
“A delicate chain is wound through their intestine and back up through, just here,” the toymaker said, pointing the tip of one pinky towards the links pulling their noses up into piggish snouts, “and at their anuses, of course.” The chains connected at the top of the cradle, suspending them.
The toymaker released the silver balls on either end, letting them swing back in again. Each connected with the shining sphere peeking out of their stretched assholes, rocking them forwards and connecting with the ball inside of them. The micros mouths were stretched wide, showing pink gums, all teeth pulled so that when they met in the middle, they were forced to kiss the final silver ball.
“What vain little creatures,” the executive muttered, indicating to the shining reflection from the center ball. “They stare only at themselves all day long.”
“Indeed.” The toymaker held out a magnifying glass, gesturing for his client to take it up. The glass was turned and the man hummed as he watched the horrified expressions on each of the micro’s faces as they met, again and again and again, with their own reflections.
“It is a bit wet,” he said finally. “At both ends.”
“Drool and grool,” the toymaker mused, a cheerful twinkle sparking in both his eyes. “Yes, these are the sloppiest of the desk toys. They can’t be run through the dishwasher, of course, but handwashing can be quite the enjoyable task, if I do say so myself. The balls within are permanent, of course, but it can be entertaining to watch them squeal.”
“And do they go forever? Like that?” The client gestured to the continued swaying of the micros, whose moans had blessedly quieted as they continued their perpetual clicking.
“No, no. I’m afraid not,” the toymaker mused. “Eventually they will slow. Shall I show you some of our other selections? It should allow you time to see how long their natural cycle lasts.” At a quick wave of the executive’s hand, the toymaker turned and picked his suitcase up, opening it on the desk beside his clicking micros, who he gently slid to one side as he drew forth a rectangular frame.
“Pin art.” He displayed the frame to the man, who glanced at it with no clear interest. The toymaker pushed from his side, and the image of a woman appeared in the pins facing the man. His eyes lifted, interest sparking, as the toymaker had known that it would. Giving a knowing chuckle he spun the frame around and passed it over to the man.
A bald micro was stretched spread eagle the back of her small head facing the man. Her tits bounced as she was tipped backwards, smoothing the pins back out on the other side. The man pressed two fingers to her plump ass and pushed forwards, rocking her hips into the pins but holding just her head back.
The shape of her vulva emerged in the delicate spread of pins. “I like to think of this one as modern art,” the toymaker mused, chuckling as the man indulged himself, pushing back and forth on various limbs so that the micro reflected in fragments on the other side.
“Is she... are they, is it cognizant?” The executive wagged a finger from the framed rectangle to the still bouncing Newton’s Cradle. “Are they aware of what’s being done to them?”
“Little I known of the micro race.” This was a lie, of course. Much was known. They exhibited intelligence and spirit such as any full grown human. But the toymaker had not yet pinned his client’s motivations and so danced the delicate dance of the politely ambiguous. “They are built to manage long term occupation, of course. Medical science has done wonders for their elasticity and health. But their minds… well. I like to think that their participation is reflected in their lovely, little faces.”
The executive tipped the bald micro’s head back. Her mouth, like the others, was held wide so that the blunt pins filled it with each thrust forwards. “It doesn’t look happy,” the man mused, before shoving its head forwards once, twice, and then a third time.
A fellow sadist. Delightful.
“Perhaps a little birdie would suit your interests better? Attend. A drinking bird. Or a dunky bird, depending on the region.” A glass structure was placed on the desk, more elegant than the other two by far. “A statement piece, by my eye. Observe.”
A slender micro was suspended on a bar, tipping her long legs bound together and pin straight, her arms missing altogether. Her chest was impressive, nipples long and dusky, and atop her head was a high ponytail. Unlike the other desk ornaments, she warbled, a high pitched whine that resembled that of a singing bird.
A crystal glass stood before her perch and the toymaker gave her legs a swing forwards, watching his client as she tilt-a-whirled, head approaching the glass of water. On the second swing forwards the end of her ponytail dipped into the water, flicking droplets over her back as she straightened forwards again.
The executive brushed the toymaker’s hand aside, earning a grim glower that went wholly unnoticed. He lifted the girl’s legs higher, letting them swing down with force, so that when her head lowered it did so at a rush. The warbling turned into a thin scream and then silence.
Hair swished around her face, bubbles emerging at the top of the water. And then that same reedy scream, spluttering now.
The toymaker hummed. “The water is run through her. In and back out, through the vulva and down through the bottom of the display. I find that the best distractions are those that run on processing system all their own. Her belly will grow rather tight of course, before the immediate flushing, but…”
“I’ll have this one,” the executive declared, trailing the blunt tip of his thumb nail over the micro’s bare and exposed feet. Screaming turned into laughter, bubbling and then abruptly silenced. The toymaker watched as seconds stretched on, the birdie’s torso beginning to struggle beneath the surface of the water. He was about to remind the customer that damaged purchases would be charged, even if unable to be repaired, when the birdie was let up again.
“Very good, sir. Shall I put the rest away?”
The man glanced at the suitcase, attention breaking from the birdie. “No, no. You might as well show me what you’ve got as you’re here now.”
“And so I shall! Though I only have one left on this current run.” The twinkle was back. The toymaker drew from the suitcase a wooden box, setting it before the executive before closing his suitcase with a snap.
“What is it?” The man asked, picking it up and turning it over and over. A simple toggle sat on top of the box and he pressed at it with his thumb, sliding over the tip of the metal but not yet pressing down. He was catching on then. The toymaker found business men a dry sort of breed but he did enjoy those with complimentary taste.
“Please.”
Thumb sliding forwards, the man watched as the top half of the box slid open and snapped shut again a moment later. Charmed, he laughed and flicked the switch again, and then again once more.
“A useless box. Or rather, a fucking box, if you’ll pardon my French.”
“Oui, oui,” the man whispered, thumbing the switch again. The box opened and inside a face stared up at him, mouth stretched into a bizarre smile with hooks elongating all four corners outwards into a look so grotesque as to shock. Tits rolled up and down on the micro’s slim form as the dildo forced up inside of it drew out, leaving it nearly empty. It fucked forwards again, daunting in its size, so that the micro’s belly tented around it as the box lid snapped shut again.
“This particular micro confessed to being claustrophobic,” the toymaker whispered, watching as his sales pitch fulfilled itself, barely needing input. “It’s only exposure to light is when you thumb open that box it’s in. Its clit is stimulated, though such things can be disabled, if you prefer.”
“When?” The executive looked up, watching the toymaker. “Stimulated when it’s alone in the dark or—”
“No, no,” the toymaker clarified quickly. “Only when it sees light. Only when it sees the face of the god controlling it. I think that’s better, no?”
Click, click, click, click.
Slower.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Slower.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Slower.
Click.