BY : Downey
Category: Individual Celebrities > Robert Downey Jr.
Dragon prints: 1204
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I have not made and do not make any money from this story. I do not know Robert Downey Jr.

“Undo your shirt a little,” I suggested.  He quickly unbuttoned the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt.  The tips of the white cuffs extended beyond the sleeves of his luxurious black Prada jacket.  “And the cuffs.” He gave me a quizzical look, as if to say, why bother undoing the cuffs if I’m wearing a jacket overtop? But I wanted the look to be as much a combination of put-together and thrown-together as possible. In fact, it worked quite well, giving him a hint of disshevelledness that, when combined with the careful, spiky unruliness of his dyed black hair and the mischievous gleam in his large cinnamon-coloured eyes, would look fantastic on camera. 


I was the photographer on this magazine cover story shoot and he was used to posing, to being directed to take off his clothes, look sexy.  He did it with the casual ease of someone sleepwalking to the fridge for a drink of water in the middle of the night.  I didn’t have to tell him to lean forward slightly, clasping his manicured hands in front of him, elbows resting on knees, deadpan seductive face challenging the audience—daring us to deny his beauty, his magnetism. 

I couldn’t deny it. I could barely breathe.  Standing there beside my tripod, pretending to fiddle with something, I was really trying to clear my head.  It was becoming increasingly impossible to focus on the job, with such an amazing specimen of a man not more than six feet in front of me.  He was clearing his throat now, possibly growing impatient.  He was prepared to tolerate the indignities of show business, but only to a point. I saw him glance wistfully at a bottle of water on the table beside the white leather chair on which he sat.

“Go ahead, take a break—I’ll just be a sec.  Sorry,” I told him, getting as much professional tone into my voice as I could muster.  He stepped down from the chair as gracefully as a cat, reached for the bottle and unscrewed the cap.  I had turned off the stereo system a few minutes earlier, tired of the bland pop song that seemed to be stuck on repeat, and the set was now uncomfortably quiet.  I could hear Robert’s gulps as the cool liquid poured down his throat, and his sigh of fulfillment once he’d had enough.  The plastic cap screwed back on noisily.  He turned to me.

“Um…what’s your name again?”

“Tamara,” I breathed.  Oh my God, was I trying to sound like a husky sex kitten? Was it that obvious? How mortifying! I looked away in embarrassment.

He was advancing toward me, smiling slyly, taking in my long golden waves, tight white t-shirt, jeans, and black boots.  “Tamara, do you think we could try a few with the jacket off?”  His eyes crinkled at the corners.  “It’s getting kinda hot in here.”

I gulped. “Uh, sure, yeah, let’s do a few like that…”

He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders and pulled his arms out of the sleeves.  “Should I…?” He gestured toward the cuffs of the white shirt.

I practically skipped toward him, grabbed his left arm, and started rolling the sleeve up over his muscular forearm.  His skin was warm and lightly covered in fine, dark hairs.  I wanted to press my lips against it.  When I moved to the other arm, Robert brought a hand up to meet mine. 

“You want them a bit messy, right? Is that how you want it?”

I froze.

He slowly rolled the sleeve up himself, in a haphazard way, looking at me instead of at the shirt.  My hand was still holding his wrist.  I dropped it self-consciously and he chuckled.  “How’s that?”

I stood back and pretended to look at the rolled sleeves.  “Perfect.”

I snapped a few like that, with Robert lounging across the white chair, sitting on the floor in front of it, doing everything but headstands in an attempt to give me an interesting photograph.  Emboldened by his flirting, I finally got up the courage to demand, “Okay, now take the shirt off.”

He looked at me.  “Really?”

“Yeah, why not?” I looked at the floor.

“Okay, whatever.”  His perfect long fingers with their perfect trimmed nails slowly unbuttoned the shirt and he started to pull it off.  I took some photos while he was undressing and he played it up, holding the shirt half on when it was halfway down his back, tilting his head down and looking up at me with huge eyes, swimming in sexiness.  He dropped the shirt to the floor and puffed out his chest, then folded his arms across it.  The “Indio” and “Suzie Q” tattoos on his biceps hugged his pecs.  He threw his head back over his shoulder and blew me a kiss.

“Undo the button on your pants,” I told him next.  This time he didn’t hesitate.  He stood there, naked to the waist, black trousers undone, with a very rumpled, “I’ve just had sex and had to dress quickly” look about him.  Then he sat in the chair again, knees apart, chin propped on bent elbows, like an innocent boy who’s been caught doing something naughty.

He grinned at me.  “Do you want to adjust my clothes again? Undo this zipper maybe?”

I bit my lower lip to keep from groaning.

After another twenty minutes of practically twisting himself into a pretzel for me, he suddenly stood up and said, “Okay, I’m done.”

“Right, uh, of course. I’ve got lots to work with here. Thanks for being such a great subject.” I stuck my hand out stupidly to shake his.

Taking the hand, he bent forward and pressed it to his full lips. “Happy to help. I’m basically what you might call a patron of the arts.” Then he winked, and was gone.

I sat in the chair that still smelled like him until my legs stopped quivering. We’d only been together for an hour, but it was a session that I would not forget any time soon. 

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