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preun says: "In a corporate dystopia, employee's balls are owned by their company. A drivethrough worker struggles to get an order from some rowdy customers to keep up with his quota and save his balls."

--

"Do y'all want curly fries? I want some curly fries. Ooh, or maybe tater tots? Julie, what do you think?"

"Ma'am, could you please -- haaaaaah." Arnold fought to maintain his composure despite his growing alarm. "C-could you please place an order?"

"Calm down there, sugar, just a second." The big-breasted bunny in the drive-thru shook her head and chuckled, looking back at the other passengers in her car for affirmation. "Isn't that just like a man, trying to race straight to the finish? Yeesh." The other women in the car cackled in reply.

Customer dissatisfaction detected. A robotic female voice rang out from Arnold's earpiece, only loud enough for him to hear. Employee correction measures will be administered now.

"Oh fuck, not-...nnnnnnnngh!" The coyote trembled in place, his left hand dropping to clutch ineffectively at his groin.

Working at Poppy's was not a glamorous affair. Sure, the fast food chain made a damn good jalapeño popper, but it treated its employees like shit: minimum wage, minimum vacation days, and minimum benefits (other than a surprisingly comprehensive reproductive healthcare plan). Not only that, but management held all workers to strict quotas and strict service criteria. As Poppy's thick-thighed chicken mascot always promised: "Your order in 60 seconds or less, with a side of smiles. Guaranteed!"

It had always been hard to satisfy those demands...but now that corporate had rolled out the new "Personal Operational Performance System" (POPS), it had gone from difficult to impossible. Thanks to POPS, now his employer had him by the balls. Literally.

"My nuts," the male croaked quietly, his legs quivering like jelly. The Poppy's-branded device wrapped around his testicles had been slowly inflating over the past few minutes, like a blood pressure cuff gradually crushing the life out of his spuds. This damn customer had been unable to make up her mind for a solid 5 minutes now. He could feel his two orbs compressed together into one lumpy mass, the rubbery spheres squirming in an attempt to escape the terrible pressure but finding no shelter.

Arnold had debated shoving a hand down his pants to try to claw the device off, but the training videos had made it VERY clear that removing the device before the end of a shift could lead to...sub-optimal results.

Every second that the customer delayed, the more that his nuts felt like they might explode. And every time he asked the customer to hurry up, POPS would scold him and ratchet up the pressure even more. At this point, it was only a matter of time until-

"You know, I haven't had a good malted milkshake in a while...but like, is that really what I want right now?" The busty female looked Arnold straight in the eye. "Is that really who I am? You know?"

Arnold squeaked, clutching at the drive-thru counter for support. His fingers were white as he tried not to collapse to the floor. "M-ma'am, your order's on the house, just-...just please, tell me what you want!"

"On the house?" The bunny paused...then raised an eyebrow. "...Are you hitting on me, little man?"

Arnold's eyes went wide. "N-n-no! I swear, I'm not-"

Flirting with customers is against company policy, POPS reminded him helpfully. Remember, a Poppy's employee should remain professional at all times-

CRUNCH.

Arnold gave a choked mewl as his lump of nutmeat collapsed - or fused, rather, his two distinct gonads crushed together into a single torturous sphere of raw male pain. Every nerve in his nutsac lit up with white-hot agony. In any other situation, it would have been enough to make him pass out...but with the pressure around his ballsac still steadily increasing, the poor man clung to consciousness, desperate to complete this order and salvage whatever was left of his reproductive organs.

The bunny didn't seem to notice any of the drama happening on the other side of the drive-thru window. She gave a friendly laugh. "Well you're not quite my type, hon, but I'm very flattened. Er, flattered, I mean. In that case, we'll take a pair of Pop Platters and a large Gulp to share. Thank ya!"

"N-no problem," Arnold warbled miserably. "Pick up at the next window." He watched the car roll away, his entire body shaking as he tried to hold himself together.

DING. Excellent work, EMPLOYEE_NAME_HERE. Employee corrective measures will now be removed.

Arnold let out a sigh of relief as the death grip around his sac finally loosened - but that sigh quickly turned into a strangled squeal. Without the steady pressure of the POPS device pressing his nutmeat together from all sides, his tortured lump of a psuedo-nut immediately disintegrated into nothingness. Apparently all that terrible pressure had been the only thing still holding his reproductive material together.

Anomaly detected, purred the female voice in his ear. Your supervisor has been notified. Your system may require re-calibration.

Arnold crumpled to the floor, both hands wrapped around the remains of his pupmakers. As he finally succumbed to unconsciousness, one last thought echoed through his mind: at least the employee health plan included coverage for testicular ruptures.