Ross's breakfast

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

Your jaw is numb. Saliva has accumulated so much that it's started dripping 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 the rubber cock moves slightly in your throat. It's the only thing keeping you entertained in the darkness: swallowing, feeling, imagining it's his real cock plugging your hole.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps. Heavy. Barefoot. Coming 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 racing 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 sing-song. Like he's talking to a puppy. You hear the metallic screech of the box's latches. 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 visible 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, disheveled from sleep, and he has that expression of a macho man who needs to unload his balls.

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

You can't respond. Obviously. The dildo is still stuck down 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. Slow. Very slow. 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 like knives in your lungs. Your jaw creaks as you try to close your mouth after being open for so long.

"That's it, breathe deeply," Ross says, passing the soggy dildo over the palm of his hand, observing it with satisfaction. "I'm sure you've missed having a hot cock in your throat, haven't you?"

You nod weakly. Y...