Manhattan, New York City: a city of liars, drunks and hypocrites. My kind of city. Blood flows through the sewers of these streets and, it seems, whoever’s closest to Don Draper controls Manhattan and the blood that runs just under its skin.
Mister Don Draper. I never thought I’d get here. Shit. Fuck. I never fucking thought I’d be sitting here, at his desk, staring him right in his pretty goddamn face. I never even knew he was so good-looking. As a marketing intern, from a town 3,355 miles away, I managed to get a place at Sterling Cooper’s. I stare into his black eyes for what seems like a silent century. Smoke curls into the still air and I watch his lips part to accept the cigarette. Those soft, pink lips. I have to suppress a shudder.
“Listen, kid. Stay on my good side, yeah?” I nod and smile. I’ll do better than that, Mister Draper.
It’s been about six months since I started at Sterling Cooper’s. Six months of ‘yes, Mister Draper’, ‘of course, Mister Draper’ and, when I’m really having to try, ‘yes, of course, sir’. I glance at the clock, half nine at night. Sprawled across his desk, I can feel his large hands palming across my bare chest and outstretched legs. My shirt is open but my pants are still, firmly, on. I don’t do anything without his say-so. My clammy skin clings to his suit, now simply falling off him. His coat hangs over his high-back chair but his tie is loose, the first buttons on his shirt undone and his dress pants are straining, making way for the...the... Oh, my God... Between my legs, Don ruts against my own erection. His is nine inches of fucking paradise and I can’t help but whine when he digs his nails into my sternum.
I was born in the midst of the war, 1941, after some Nazi bastard decided to take his chance with an unwilling, English girl. I never knew her. Wish I did. Wish I could say sorry. For what? I don’t know. I was tossed around, from orphanage to orphanage, until I was twelve, then I started as a paperboy. I stunk of printer ink, most of the time. It wasn’t until ‘59 where I saw the shining lights of New York, in a paper I was delivering, and I knew what I wanted to do.
He’s fifteen years older than me. I’ve always had a thing for older men. Don’s almost old enough to be my dad but not quite. I wonder how many guys he’s been with. Not many, most likely, judging by his serial womaniser status. He’s probably had girls falling at his feet for the best part of thirty years but I had him hook, line and sinker. We fuck. That’s it. Pressure builds up, fast, in our line of work and I’m only so happy to help.
Sure, I don’t think they liked that I was foreign but enough of the secretaries I’d met were swayed by my ‘charming’ accent and my bow tie that I, finally, got that initial interview with Mister Draper. I don’t think he’s been called sir since the army. It’s not a good thing, it’s not a bad thing. It’s just a thing. Because he knows, deep down, that when I say it, I mean it. I’m completely at his disposal, much like right now.
“Filthy, little thing. This how they do it in England?” He husks and I shudder, letting a weak chuckle escape me, his dexterous fingers finding my belt buckle and stripping me of my pants and briefs, pulling both over my shoes and tossing them to the floor. Fondly, he snaps my sock suspenders before glancing up at me, rock hard and red in the face. His hair is askew, ever so slightly. He grasps at my chin and forces me to look at him. “But you’re such a good boy.” I whine at that and he wraps a palm around my cock and I have to force myself not to buck up into his grip. “Turn over.”
I do as he asks. His gaze feels like fire, searing every inch of flesh that it touches. He sits back in his chair, palming himself through his dress pants as I prop myself up on my knees. He lets out a huffed chuckle when I lick my fingers and slide them into my ass, stretching myself open for him. In a moment, when I’m not looking, he snaps his pants open and tugs down his briefs, exposing those thick nine inches of fucking heaven. Draper was fucking blessed. What I wouldn’t give to suck him off all goddamn day. He stands from his chair and presses the underside of his cock against my exposed hole, rutting against the spit-slick entrance as I arch into the motion. The hot flesh of his cock is pressed, tightly, against the sensitive flesh and I can feel him twitch with want. One hand grabs at my ass and the other in my hair.
“On your back.” He demands and I can hear the waver in his voice.
I do as he asks. This gorgeous, powerful man, wounded and tortured by war, made twisted and sick by the city. I look up and I can see my death. Death in a fallen city, raised to the ground, populated by angels. My life flashes before my eyes and I’m full to the brim.
“Oh, fuck!” I squeal as he enters me with a rough thrust. I wrap my calves around his hips and my hands fly to his shoulders, dragging him down so I can taste the sweat on his skin. Thirty-four and fucking a man of nineteen with such vigour. “God, yes! Mister Draper!” My eyes roll to the back of my head and I’m seeing stars as he draws in and out of my fragile frame. His breath is hot and heavy in my ear as he bows his head against the crook of my neck.
There’s a nostalgic element to musk-based colognes that speaks of power and dominance. A musk-based cologne is a wise choice for any sex-crazed, smoke-obsessed creative lead who wants to exude the air of a manly, red-blooded male. I smell it on his skin when he draws in close. Dark, brooding, dominant men became the sex gods of the new age, the minute the fifties were over. Colognes began to follow suit with exotic odors and suave ad campaigns. No doubt, Don Draper was behind many of their inspirations; the man who plays to win, whatever the game.
He suckles on the skin of my throat, pinching it with his teeth until it’s red raw. He sucks my skin through his teeth and I can’t help but gasp against his shoulder. His palms are planted either side of my head and I find myself in the most comfortable cage I’ve ever had the pleasure to be in. His sweat-slicked skin is fire against my own and I can’t help but buck against his cock. In a hot second, the head dips against a spot inside me that makes me scream.
A groan tears through my body as I hear him sob, feeling a shudder wrack through him. His thrusts become shallow and fast. I pull back, pushing against his chest so he looks me in the eyes. His cheeks are stained with tears and his lips are swollen.
“Don. Don?” Breathless and worried, he stares at me, blankly, for a moment and I can’t help but move in to kiss him. The kiss is chaste and caring and reassuring and— Oh, God... Don’t fall for him, you can’t fall for him. For God’s sake, don’t do it. He bites at my lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. Between the iron in his mouth and the pressure in his belly, Don Draper spends himself, deep, in the ass of the best goddamn intern he’s ever had.
After the aftershocks have echoed through him, we untangle our limbs from each other and he collapses into his office chair with a deep sigh and a shuddering breath. I sit up, come drooling onto the desk and over the edge.
“Don.” I repeat, softly, fingers only just brushing the crook of his neck. He jerks away from the touch and I can’t help but cup his cheeks and forcing him to look up at me. “Don.” I try again and this time he responds, gasping and sobbing. I hold him close until the shivers subside and I pepper his cheeks with kisses. I pull back to look at him. Don Draper; a cracked, china doll, haphazardly taped back together by the pride and ignorance of patriotism. He mumbles something under his breath, over and over, as I press his head to my chest.
“... I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” He can hear my heartbeat, slow and consistent, as I stroke his hair and he seems to stop. I shush him and hum a lullaby I heard a long time ago.
It isn’t wise but, I think, I’m falling in love with Don Draper, my cracked, china doll.