Tom Brady Is a Dick

[6 word request: Tom Brady Wants to Be Cockified]

[Possession, body swap, cock TF]

Tom Brady, signing autographs, visibly tensed as a young man in a ballcap pulled low over his eyes stepped forward with a football to be signed. He tilted his head up and Tom froze. Tom struggled to regain his composure but it was clear something had startled him. A light sheen of sweat formed on the champion’s brow.

“Uh, okay… what’s the name, buddy?” Tom mumbled through each word. The young man--barely 21, skinny and blonde with large buck teeth--smiled at him and winked.

“I’m Tom,” he said. “Just like you.”

Tom’s hand shook as he signed it and shoved it back at the young man. “That’s it, sorry guys,” he apologized as the rest of his fans deflated with disappointment. “Sorry, gotta call it a night.”

Later, on a burner phone he kept hidden from his wife, Tom angrily tapped out a text once he was sure that the rest of his family was in bed. “I thought we had an agreement, Brad,” he typed. “I paid you your money. You’re supposed to keep your distance. You agreed!”

Tom loathed the pit in his stomach as he waited for a response. This was the only situation in his life he had no control over--and that feeling terrified him.

“You also sent detectives after me to dig up dirt,” Brad texted back. “You hoping to blackmail me back, Tom? I don’t appreciate it. That sort of thing makes me feel like our agreement is null and void.”

Tom almost dropped the phone in shock. It was true, he had sent private investigators after the young man, hoping to find one shred of leverage he could use to gain the upper hand in the situation. Both men claimed that they had been subtle in their inspections and that they had found nothing. Then, both of them disappeared without another word.

It suddenly dawned on Tom that Brad could have done something to them.

“Please,” Tom typed back. “What do I have to do? I want my life back.”

“Your life is only yours because that’s the mood I’m in,” Brad responded. “Don’t text me back. Pray I feel like leaving you alone, Tom.”

Tom didn’t sleep that night,. He lay in bed remembering the first time he came out of a daze and found himself thinking back to the first time it had happened--when he woke from what he thought (and prayed!) had been a dream to find himself in some strange man’s apartment.

The guy was bigger than Tom, some roided up freak drawing circles on Tom’s chest with a thick finger, asking if he wanted to, “go another round, champ?”

Tom had struggled to get away from the enormous man, horrified as he felt something warm drool out of his ass as he stood up. He had to pay off that guy, too, to keep him quiet about what happened when Tom wasn’t in control.

Tom could still remember the taste in his mouth--that musclebound man’s sweaty cock and his thick, warm cum.

*

Brad sat in his car and watched the press conference on his phone. He had tickets to go to the Patriots game, of course (he got them free, thanks to his “connection”) but he never went inside. He knew that all night Tom would be distracted while he played, scanning the stands. Brad wanted Tom to keep searching, terrified by the idea that he didn’t know where Brad was.

No wonder the Patriots lost that night. Every channel was talking about Tom Brady’s game being seriously off that night. “What’s Gotten Into Tom Brady?” was the headline trending after the Pats’ 35 point loss. Brad smirked at the wording.

He fished a small wooden doll from his glove compartment and held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. It was made of tiny scraps of Tom collected over more than a year. What a pain in the ass it had been to make! Convincing Tom’s maid to share fingernail clippings and hair from the shower drain, getting the team’s assistants to share sweat-soaked jockstraps and mud-stained jerseys, until he finally had enough for the spell to work.

Combined with some of the magic Brad’s grandfather had taught him and sealed with his own essence (a fresh load, jerked out while thinking of exactly what he was going to do to Tom once the spell was complete), the tiny doll gave Brad power that most people would deny was even possible.

Brad held the doll close and silently invoked its charm. He felt like he was floating at first, tumbling through space; then he was being yanked, dragged at high speed in some direction as a starry abyss passed by him in a blur. Then, darkness; then, warmth, and the jarring feeling of going from weightlessness to once again having a corporeal body.

Brad blinked as he found himself in front of a microphone at a podium. He looked around at the reporters furiously writing as cameras flashed in his face. He smiled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot the question. And to be honest, I just wanted to announce my retirement. I won’t even be finishing out the season.”

The crowd of reporters erupted at that moment, all asking questions at once. Brad just laughed, glanced down at his body--he had been in it enough times to recognize it, giving it a few pats as if to say, “Hello again!”--and held up his hands. “Honestly, you all can talk to my publicist. I’ll issue my complete statement then. Right now, I need to get some rest.”

He walked away from the podium without really knowing where he was or where he was heading, but at one point he passed a mirror. He paused for just a moment to take a look at the face staring back at him--Tom Brady’s face--making it smile and wink at his command, and then headed out. “Where’s my driver?” he demanded. “I want to go home, now!”

That was the thing about being Tom Brady. He just had to loudly ask for things and he would get them.

He got a hotel room that night--5 stars, of course, paid for with a flash of his smile and Tom’s bottomless credit card--and lay back on the king-sized bed, feeling the plush sheets under his--Tom Brady’s--body.

He knew exactly where the real Tom was, and he hoped that ignoring him would cause him just the right amount of delicious torment. But now it was time for Brad to give him attention. “HOw you doing down there, Tom?” he said, reaching down to feel the big dick twitching between his legs. He smiled as he touched it, instantly sensing the man trapped inside the tube of flaccid, veiny flesh.

“Oh, Tommy boy!” he said loudly, gently caressing the dick as it twitched and throbbed. He could feel the real Tom’s rage, his frustration, his helplessness--and his shame at enjoying the content. Tom needed to be touched, despite himself, and he hated himself for it.

“Just relax, big man,” he said as he cupped the big balls, tickling them with his fingers. “Oh, Tom, you feel… so so good! You love this, too. And when you love it… It means I love it…” Every touch of the big, beautiful cock was slow and deliberate. He knew he was working Tom Brady, trapped in his own cock, into a frenzy. He knew how guilty Tom would feel about how desperately he craved the contact.

The huge dick was rock-hard, twitching and jerking almost of its own accord. Truly the real Tom Brady would be missing having arms and legs or a face, trying to express his autonomy but finding himself rooted to the spot, tormented by mind blowing sensations sensations no full-grown man could withstand, let alone 9 inches of sensitive flesh.

“Oh, I bet you’re desperate for release!” Brad taunted. He pulled his hands away and held them behind his head, watching the big dick wiggle and twitch to no avail. “You want to cum so badly! Well, I’m not letting you get away that easily,” he said. “We’re going to be together like this for a long time this session, so I want to make sure we make all of this last. Don’t want you spitting up all that cum too early! Let’s let it churn in your big hairy balls first, work you up into a frenzy, then we’ll give you release… but only if you’re good.”

The big cock twitched and his balls jumped in response.

*

Tom was warm.

It was dark--no, not dark. He couldn’t see. But he could hear, somehow. He tried to speak but found he had no voice. There, reeling from the loss of so many of his senses, he did his best to take stock of what he did have.

A mouth, though he wasn’t breathing. A head, but no face. What felt like a thick body, but no limbs to speak of. He was so hot. Waves of heat were radiating from deep within him He had no nose but he could smell, somehow. He knew the musky odor that was all around him; he’d smelled it in his own boxers before, in his jockstrap after every game. It was the sweaty stink of his own groin, although magnified to about ten times what he was used to and inescapable.

The first time it had happened, it had been a full day of confusion, trying to figure out where he was, why he couldn’t see or speak, and what the powerful sensations surging through him were. Sometimes his body was loose and floppy, sometimes it swelled to three times its size and became impossibly rigid.

It wasn’t until Brad gave him back his body that first time that he realized that when Brad possessed him, somehow Tom’s essence got shoved into his own dick. Whatever the spell was, it made Tom into his own dick while Brad had his body.

When he was a man, it was a nearly inconceivable notion. Memories of being his own cock faded soon after he was himself again, but some parts of it left an indelible mark on his psyche.

And now here he was again, bunched up against himself, warm and tightly contained, bouncing and wobbling as--he assumed--Brad walked around in his own body.

He heard the sound of a zipper and felt huge hands grabbing him and uncoiling him into the light. Ah, sweat, fresh air! He only got a whiff of it before he was hit by a wave of stinik: acrid urine and mildew, like in a public restroom. He couldn’t see but he knew where he was. He silently screamed for his own freedom and tried his best to move, but the powerful hand holding him aimed him where it wanted him to go.

He knew what was about to happen but there was no way to prepare himself: hot liquid spewed from his mouth. Fuck, he could taste it! Hot urine, blasting through his whole body. The heat radiated out from his insides. He felt as if his core had gone nuclear. The torrent blasting from his mouth was so powerful--he was helpless to it. He was grateful when he felt the pressure start to dwindle, moreso when it died down to a few drips and he twitched the last few bits of it out. The massive hand shook him and then tucked him away in the dark warmth.

He hated that he had just peed--that his own urine had blasted from his mouth!--but there was a part of him that yearned for attention. Trapped there, rooted to the spot, was a nightmare; he was absolutely helpless in a way that Tom Brady never felt in his regular life.

He was a man! He wasn’t just some fleshy thing. But he knew he would do whatever the man in his body wanted until he felt comfortable releasing him again. Tom prayed it would be soon.

But more than that, Tom prayed for contact. He wanted Brad to touch him. Acknowledge him. He was Tom Fucking Brady! How dare that fucker just leave him alone down there like he wasn’t the greatest quarterback of all time?

It seemed like days until he finally felt that big hand on him again, but there was no way to know; as a cock, he had no concept of time. It could have been mere minutes for all he knew. But being alone like that was agony, he knew, and when the big hand released him from the pants and underwear squeezing him down like that, he felt relieved. The fingers curled around him in a sort of hug; he felt comforted.

“There, there,” said his own voice--a haunting enough notion. It bothered him when Brad acknowledged his current situation. It was much easier to be a cock when he wasn’t constantly reminded of his helplessness by the most familiar sound he knew. “Poor Tom Brady,” cooed the voice as the fingers gently rubbed him up and down.

The gentle caress was so comforting that Tom found himself disarmed. He tried his best to lean into the hand. For once he was acknowledged as being more than a thing. He wasn’t just some tool for any number of forms of relief!

Then the closed hand started to slide back and forth. Tom felt massive waves of pleasure roll over him rhythmically. Fuck, this felt better than any orgasm he’d ever felt--and it just kept going! He hated how much he loved it, prayed for it to be over, but he couldn’t resist it as the hand worked him into a frenzy.

How could he stretch so much? How could he get SO much bigger? He felt his body moving on its own, felt the familiar feeling of his body going from soft to rigid, expanding the whole time.

“Fuck!” Tom would have screamed if he’d had a voice. “Make me cum!” he would have begged. In all honesty, there was nothing he wouldn’t have said just to let all of the tension building to critical levels beneath him finally release.

Oh god, he was so fucking hot. Seriously, he was drowning in a sauna-like fever. Every time he resolved that his brain would explode if the sensations rolling over them increased, they did--and he found there was nothing in his “head” to blow. But he knew he couldn’t take much more. He knew he was hurtling toward a cliff, and soon he would fall blissfully over it and the release woudl be the most exquisit thing he’d experienced.

But that never came. He would have screamed if he’d had a voice, the waves of pleasure hitting him had grown to such levels. It had to end soon. It had to. Had to.

He felt his own brain browning out . He was forgetting what words were; several seconds passing where he was only able to think in pictures, then in feelings, then language was inaccessible.

When it finally came he felt like he was screaming. The thick gobs of fluid pulsing through him, spraying in huge volleys from his mouth, felt like the only language he had access to. God, it felt so good to release them! The balls beneath him--his balls, he would think later; or “the balls part of me”--twitched and squeezed as he blasted out what felt like gallons of the hot metallic-tasting substance.

When it was over, he felt calmness. He lay there, unable to form a thought, his body slowly recoiling back to its smaller, squishier state. Then, in the stillness that followed, he remembered who he was supposed to be. He got back in touch with his helplessness and his rage, and tried his best to fight free of his situation. But there was nothing he could do but lay there and wait for Brad, in his body, to reach down and find a use for him once again.

Maybe, Tom thought, if he summoned up enough of his willpower, he could make his whole body tingle and twitch. Maybe he could exert some of his own influence to take his power back the only way he could: by getting Brad to reach down and jerk him again.

It was all he had, until Brad let him go. Though he loathed the idea, part of him yearned to be jerked, to loose himself in that mindless ecstasy, to forget what he was and who he was supposed to be and just throb and pulse and spew cum in the pure rapture that was his only escape.

*

It was hard for Tom to get used to sleeping alone. Even two months after Brad had given him his body back, he still woke up reaching out for Gisele. He would call out into the darkness for his sons. He would get up in the middle of the night and stumble into walls where he thought a door should be, unfamiliar with the house Brad had built when he was in control. When he finally found his way to the bathroom, he would listen to the sound of his own piss and imagine its taste. He was one of very few men who knew its exact flavor--better than he knew any other.

Tom slept in a hammock now with a weighted blanked pulled over him. It was the only way he could relax, simulating the feeling of being nestled into a tight jockstrap or a skimpy speedo as he had been for so long when Brad was in charge.

He was only up early that morning because he couldn’t handle the dreams anymore. That morning, he had awoken in a sweat from a dream of giant 7-foot tall disembodied penises walking around like people. He was being chased by them and knew he had to hide. He found himself in a bathroom stall with two of the giant dicks just outside. When he looked down, he saw a tiny Rob Gronkowski hanging off his groin where his own dick was supposed to be. And he begged Rob to stay quiet, and to keep his hands off himself, but Rob just wouldn’t stop rubbing his body up in down that made Tom twitch and writhe.

Tom pondered his dreams as he sat at his breakfast table, eating a bowl of oatmeal mechanically. Chewing and swallowing took maximum effort; he hadn’t forgotten how to do either, but neither came automatically anymore.

Mario, the thickly built latino groundskeeper, perked up when he saw Tom walk by shirtless. Tom resolved to just walk past the beefy man, but he couldn’t resist stopping and pulling Mario toward him. He crammed his tongue into Mario’s mouth, desperate to experience the taste of it. He wanted to feel its heat all around him, wanted Mario’s tongue to lap around his head and slide up and down his whole body. Tom craved it! For now, he would have to settle for deeply kissing Mario and savoring the experience.

Later on he would bend Mario over his bed and lick around the apelike man’s twitching butthole. He would lick up and down the crack, desperate to taste that part of Mario too--wishing the entire time to be small enough to slide into it.

He stood in front of the mirror that morning studying his face. “I’m Tom Brady,” he said aloud. He tried to say that 15 times a day while reminding himself what he looked like. It all seemed so cumbersome now, being a whole man. Moving himself around. Making his own decisions. He looked down at his own dick and admired it--what a beautiful thing, he thought, but he also felt envy. He wanted to be it again. He wanted to be Tom Brady’s dick so badly.

All of the parts of being human again--talking to people, eating meals, needing sleep--seemed murderously demanding. How was any of this worth it? he often thought. Not a moment would pass where his mind didn’t drift to memories of NFL showers. He would think about his teammates dicks and wish he could be connected to them.

He found a nude picture of Julian Edelman online and just stared at his former teammate’s beautiful cock. Look at those veins, he thought. Look at that head. He wanted that to be his head. God, to be connected to Julian like that--to taste Julian’s loads as they blasted through his body. To feel the heat of Julian’s big balls--no, to BE Julian’s balls! He jerked his own dick to the picture of Julian--no, just to the image of Juliian’s beautiful manhood. That was an orgasm borne entirely of envy. But even orgasms were massively disappointing to him now. What he felt was 1% the pleasure he had gotten used to.

“Brad?” Tom said into the voicemail, his heart broken by the fact that Brad hadn’t communicated with him once since he’d given Tom his body back. “Brad, it’s Tom, and I… I just wanted to say…”

What could he give Brad that he couldn’t have already taken on his own? Before giving Tom his body back, Brad had set up his own account with 10 million dollars. When Brad rematerialized after releasing Tom from his possession, he took the money and disappeared. Tom wasn’t even sure Brad was still checking this voicemail, but it was the only thing he had to go on.

“Brad, I’m not me anymore. Not totally,” he said, his mouth dry in a way that felt unnatural. Just having to breathe, having to make his vocal cords work, felt exhausting. “Brad there’s still a part of me that’s…” He didn’t want to say the word aloud. It sounded so crude, so reductive, for what it stood for--four letters to sum up such a beautiful, perfect form? “...that’s still… my dick.” He shuddered at the sound of it, but it also felt good to say aloud. “I want you to take my body again. Keep it. Make me my dick--forever. I want to get old with you that way. Please, I’m begging you. Let me be your dick, forever. I’m lost without you.”

Brad never got back to him. Tom never found him again, and could only pass the time with other men, exploring their mouths and asses, desperate to feel like he was inside them, and worshipping their beautiful dicks, wishing that could be him.