Smoke. Don't think. Don't think, don't think.

Don't think about the cocks shoved down your throat tonight, how they made you ache at the back of your mouth. Smoke instead. Inhale, exhale, repeat.

Don't think about Chasez and how much you hate his motherfucking ass. Hating him won't make you hate the customers any less. Even if he is the reason you take on more every night - more cocks, more abuse. Even if he did level that assessing gaze on you and say you need to do more to earn your keep.

No, no, no, no. No.

Smoke.

Think about...

Think about Justin, think about how he looked splayed under you this morning. Think about the gold curl that caught the sunlight and made your heart squeeze in on itself. Yeah, you can smile when you think about him. Golden Boy, Sex God. And you can feel some of the tension leave your shoulders when you remember the way he laughed when you called him that, the way his face lit up and his head flung back.

Think about that. Think about him.

Don't...no, don't think about the other people who worship at the Temple of Justin - the men, the women. The motherfucking cops, for Christ's sake, who take a chunk off their normal price to turn a blind eye to this joint as long as they get a taste of what they're protecting.

Just. Don't.

Inhale. Exhale.

Justin is good at what he does. He enjoys his work. Everybody should be so lucky.

Fuck. Don't think.