Ross's breakfast

The absolute darkness of the box has been your world for hours. You don't know exactly how much time, because time doesn't exist in there. Only the waiting, the suffocating heat of your own breath bouncing off the narrow walls, and that damn silicone dildo lodged deep in your throat, an exact replica of Ross Lynch's 22 centimeters.

Your jaws are numb. Saliva has accumulated so much that it has started to drip from the corners of your lips, sliding down your chin and forming sticky puddles on your naked chest. The dildo has texture, marked veins, and every time you swallow, you feel how that rubber cock moves slightly in your throat. It's the only thing that keeps you entertained in the darkness: swallowing, feeling, imagining that it's his real cock that's blocking your hole.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps. Heavy. Barefoot. Going down the stairs.

Click.

The basement light turns on, and although you can't see it from inside your prison, you know it's him. You'd recognize those footsteps anywhere. Your heart starts beating like a damn runaway horse. Your cock, trapped in its metal chastity cage, tries to get hard and fails miserably. The pain is sweet.

"Good morning, pig," he says.

Ross's voice sounds cheerful, almost singsong. As if he's talking to a puppy. You hear the metallic screech of the latches on your box. One. Two. Three. The lid opens, and the light hits you like a punch. You blink, blinded, and the first thing you see is his perfect Disney-star smile.

He's wearing only black Calvin Klein boxers, the prominent bulge marking itself obscenely against the fabric. His torso is naked, his abs perfectly defined, his nipples pink and hard from the morning cold. His blond hair is messy, tousled from sleep, and he has that expression of a macho who's just woken up and needs to empty his balls.

"How good you are, look how you're waiting for me," he says, caressing your cheek with tenderness. "Did you sleep well with your little friend in your mouth?"

You can't respond. Obviously. The dildo is still lodged deep in your throat, making your throat contract in involuntary spasms. He laughs.

"Let's take it out, okay? Slowly..."

He grabs the base of the dildo and starts pulling. Slowly. Very slowly. Each centimeter that comes out of your throat is torture. You feel how the walls of your esophagus cling to the silicone, how your tongue twists trying to find space. Your eyes fill with tears. Finally, with an obscene "pop," the dildo comes out completely. A thick thread of saliva connects the tip of the toy to your swollen lips.

You cough. You spit. You breathe desperately, the air entering your lungs like knives. Your jaw creaks as you try to close your mouth after so many hours open.

"That's it, breathe deeply," Ross says, passing the saliva-covered dildo over the palm of his hand, observing it with satisfaction. "I'm sure you've missed a ho...