Brady Swap (mm body swap celeb oral)

Hey fellas - as threatened, below you will find the story "Brady Swap." This is a male/male bodyswap story, and involves some gay sexual situations. If that's not your thing, this is your warning: please skip it if such stories or situations offend or whatever - I do write these things for your enjoyment and my own.

I started this story a couple years ago actually, and posted it in chapters on some now defunct body swap group. I never quite completed it, but I think it was pretty close. Here is the completed story - I hope you enjoy it...

Part I

The clock radio went off at 6AM. It was set to the Spanish station, but that didn't even register with Tom anymore. He wasn't sleeping well, and the mornings seemed to come too early now. Maybe it was the bed, he thought. It was just a single, and much smaller than he was used to. He had been dreaming when the alarm went off, and he could still remember it vividly. It was about the Super Bowl again, only in the dream he was leading the Patriots to their third championship in four years, instead of just watching the game on a shitty black-and-white TV. Missing that game had been particularly hard to take. He had been the one, after all, that got them to the big game.

Tom climbed out of bed, slipped on a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt and headed down to the basement gym. He liked to get in his workout before breakfast. With all his chores, he knew he'd never get to it if he waited until later in the day. He really needed to get himself back into shape, what with everything that happened to him down in Jacksonville. But he knew that he'd need to take things slow – a light forty minute workout was plenty for now. It was also about all he could handle. It still felt strange to him to set all the apparatus on their lightest settings.

After the workout he grabbed a quick shower. He wouldn't need to shave today, he noticed in the mirror. His beard didn't come in nearly as thick as it used to – just a little light stubble on his chin if he shaved every few days. He dressed quickly in his usual "uniform" – dark slacks and a white button-down shirt. By 7AM he was ready to fix breakfast.

Tom had never been an early riser before, and rarely ate breakfast. And while he had always been pretty useless around the kitchen, he was getting better – provided he didn't try anything too fancy. He was pretty good with some of the Cuban dishes he remembered from somewhere, but otherwise he preferred to stick to simple fare when he could. Nothing fancy today - just some fresh fruit, cereal, toast, juice, and coffee. He stepped out front to grab the paper, set it on the tray with the breakfast, and carried it up the small stairs that led up from the kitchen.

He knocked on the door, and entered what had once been his own bedroom. Lying there in the king size bed – and even after all these months it was painful for him to even think it – was Tom Brady, stud quarterback of the Super Bowl Champion New England Patriots.

He watched the long, powerful body stretch, and sit up in the oversized bed.

"Good morning, Carlos," it said.

"Buenos dias, Señor Tom," he replied deferentially, setting the tray before his employer.

He hated the heavy accent that now burdened his speech. It was odd – despite his constant practice with English, he seemed incapable of mastering it. Spanish was much more familiar to him now. He even thought in Spanish. While he recognized the sound and appearance of the words well enough, English just wasn't his native tongue anymore. He had to concentrate very hard to follow a conversation in English, and he found it very difficult to read anything but the most basic English text. Truth be told, he couldn't even read Spanish all that well.

The memories were the strangest part of all this. He remembered everything about his old life. He could remember every game he ever played, growing up in the Bay Area, his days at Michigan, his family, his friends. Names, faces, events. But how to do things – things he had learned? Gone. He could hardly throw a football anymore…

Strange too were all the "new" memories. He remembered a childhood in Cuba, a small house with a dirt floor, a mother and 5 older brothers and sisters, leaving school at the age of 10 to work in the fields. He remembered coming to Los Estados Unidos when he was 16, making the crossing in a small, open boat in the dark of night, making his way first to Miami, and finally to Jacksonville, and getting a good job as a bellboy in the nicest hotel in town.

The Super Bowl MVP scratched himself, then grabbed the remote and turned on SportsCenter. Tom stood quietly by, waiting to be dismissed. Hoping, actually – more often than not, there was another duty to perform before his employer let him leave. As the new Tom ate the breakfast before him, the old one had a few moments to once again reflect upon the series of events that brought him here…

Part II

It was the week before the Super Bowl, and Tom Brady was pissed off. He and the team had settled into their hotel in Jacksonville, and he just couldn't believe the noise coming from the room next door. One of the advantages of staying in a hotel like this one was that you didn't have to put up with the usual bullshit. And yet here he was, at the Four fucking Seasons Hotel, and the people in the next room were keeping him up. I mean – he had a Super Bowl to play next week!

He had called down to the front desk earlier, and things quieted down for a while. But now it was a couple hours later and things were even worse than before. What the fuck were they doing in there? It serves me right, Tom said to himself, for insisting on a private room this week – he was on a different floor from the rest of the team. Well, he would just have to take care of this himself. Hey – he was a big guy – 6'4" and 225 pounds. He would take care of these assholes tonight, and tomorrow kick a little ass down at the front desk.

Tom got up out of bed, and pulled his jeans on. He decided to leave his shirt off - he would look tougher if he left his broad, muscular chest bare, and showed off his powerful biceps. He walked into the corridor and banged loudly on the neighboring room's door. The music stopped after he banged the second time, but the other noises continued. It was like they were moving furniture and shit around in the room. Tom banged on the door yet again and said firmly, "Hey! Open up asshole! You got about 10 seconds before I call the cops!"

The bumping and banging stopped, and Tom then heard the door being unlocked. The door swung open and a sickly looking little guy stood before him, looking every bit as pissed as Tom felt.

"And what can I do for you?" the man asked peevishly. Tom could see into the room behind the little man. It was full of all sorts of high-tech looking equipment - electrical panel boards, computer monitors.

"You can start by keeping the fucking noise down."

The little man seemed about to say something, but then paused and took a deep breath. "Well, I must apologize. My work can be a bit noisy and I'm used to more… well, shall we say `private' surroundings. I'll try to keep it down…"

"Well, I'd appreciate it," Tom said, creeping back from his earlier rage, "I got a big week ahead of me, you know…"

The little man was looking at Tom funny. Tom knew that look well – the guy had recognized him. "Say – you're Tom Brady. You're in the Superbowl next week, aren't you? I'm a bit of a fan of yours…"

"You don't exactly strike me as the sort of guy who'd watch much football though, but thanks…"

The little guy gave a hurt look.

"Hey – I didn't mean anything by it man," Tom said. "Look, if you're a fan than could you please just keep the fucking noise down…"

At that very moment, there was a loud crash from the man's hotel room, and Tom was surprised to see a kid in a bellhop's uniform come stumbling out of the bathroom. Tom recognized him immediately as the bellhop who brought his bags up to his room earlier that day. He remembered him as a little Hispanic guy who didn't talk much. Tiny, maybe 5-4 or so and very slight. The kid couldn't be a day over 18, and had a pretty, almost feminine look to him. The guy had stared at him, which wasn't exactly uncommon, but something in his eyes made Tom wonder if the guy was coming onto him or something. Now, however, the kid was gagged, his large brown eyes wild with fear. His hands were tied behind him, and he had all these electrodes and wires hanging off him.

"Hey – what the fuck is…" Tom began, but the words died in his mouth as the little man jabbed a needle into his upper arm.

The quarterback stood there dumbly for a moment, suddenly unable to move. Then his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, to be caught in the arms of the little guy.

"Bad luck for you," the little man said to Tom, and then everything went black.

When Tom regained consciousness, he was firmly secured onto some type of chair, and gagged so that he could not speak or cry out for help. He couldn't move his head at all. Directly across from his was the bellboy, similarly restrained. There was some sort of metal band that wrapped around the dude's head, so Tom figured that was why he couldn't move his head either.

Then the little guy walked into his field of vision, wearing a lab coat and looking every bit the mad scientist. "Well, I see you are awake. A man of your size requires a larger dose of sedative, I suppose." He pulled a needle from his lab coat. "No matter – we have plenty. Now, my friend, you've caused no small amount of trouble for me today. But you've also presented me with an unexpected opportunity – one that, unfortunately for you, I cannot afford to pass up."

Tom felt cold fear rising for the first time, wondering if was going to get out of this thing alive. The little man checked one of the monitors, and patted Tom's arm gently. "Your heart rate is up. There's no need for you to be afraid, Tom. I won't harm a single hair on that handsome head of yours. It's poor little Carlos here that you should be worrying about." Tom looked into the wide, frightened eyes of the boy. "Now I'm going to give you some nice medicine, and when you wake up, it will all be over…"

Tom wanted to scream, to fight this crazy bastard. But he was totally helpless. He could do nothing as the little guy grabbed his arm and sunk the needle into him. And then, nothing…

Part III

Tom awoke back in his own room with a blinding headache. He didn't know what a migraine was like, but it sure as hell couldn't be any worse than this. Every breath he took set off new jolts of pain. He had the Super Bowl coming up, and Coach would kill him if he was laid up by a hangover... But as he lay there in his darkened hotel room, the pain began to lessen, and his head to clear. He couldn't have a hangover, he realized - he hadn't had anything to drink the night before. He came right home after the team dinner, didn't he? He hoped it wasn't the flu something...

And then, like a bolt of lightning, the memories of the night before hit him - the strange dude in the room next door, the little bell boy... What the fuck was going on??? He began to struggle to get up, only to realize that the restraints he remembered weren't there anymore. Tom pulled himself to his feet. The bed was higher than he expected, and he stumbled as his feet hit the floor. He was very lightheaded, but he could stand at least. His head throbbed as he made his way unsteadily toward the bathroom.

Something felt weird, though – other than the headache. As he walked toward the door, his body just felt different. Weaker, sure – that was probably just from the drugs. But his muscles were responding differently, moving in an unfamiliar way. Tom got to the door, but couldn't find the doorknob in the dark. He fumbled around for some time before finding it. Funny, he thought, he hadn't noticed how high it was before. It didn't matter anyway – the door was locked.

Tom couldn't figure out why the bathroom door would be locked, but there was another that opened off of the suite's living room. He could see light coming from under that door, and slowly, quietly made his way over. Again, he couldn't find the doorknob at first, but he knew to look higher this time. He slowly turned the knob and opened the door ever so slightly so he could peer out.

There was someone in the living room, a big dude too. Jeez – the guy had to be 7 feet tall! The guy had on jeans and no shirt, but he was facing away and Tom couldn't see his face. The guy was flexing and posing, feeling himself up. Weird...

Tom watched him for a few moments, waiting for the chance to make a break for it. If it were just the little guy, he'd just go for it. But this dude was a fucking giant, and Tom was still feeling a little dizzy. He was in no shape for a fight right now. The TV was blaring, which was a break. If the guy would just head into the bathroom or something he could make a break for it. Tom tried to follow what they were saying on the TV, but they were speaking in some foreign language and talking way too fast. A lot of the words sounded real familiar, but he just couldn't make it out.

The phone rang then, and the giant walked into a corner of the room that Tom couldn't see. He heard the guy answer the phone, but he was talking the same language as the TV. Still, the dude's voice sounded real familiar.

When the guy hung up, Tom watched for him to move across the room again and waited silently. No sound but the TV. Maybe the guy had gone into the bathroom, Tom thought. He reached out and opened the door a little wider and took a tentative step into the brightly lit room. Suddenly, from behind the door, a hand shot out and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. Tom winced in pain. His arm looked so thin in the grip of that powerful hand.

And dark – Tom was stunned. His arm was deeply tanned. How was that possible??? Tom looked then at the large hand that gripped him, followed it up the veiny forearm and powerful bicep, to the massive chest, broad shoulders, and thick neck. He was eye level with the giant's chest. Then Tom looked into at the face of the giant. The scream escaped his throat before he even realized it. He was staring up into his own face.

* * *

"Not a bad breakfast, Carlos," Tom's employer said, jolting him back to the present. "You're really starting to get the hang of things."

"Gracias, Señor Tom," he replied meekly. He always bristled at such praise. Here was the guy who stole his body - stole his whole fucking life - giving him a pat on the back for completing some menial task. But Tom had learned to keep his feelings to himself, though. He employer really held his life in the palm of his hand, and never let him forget it.

"So - Carlito - what the fuck are you waiting for?" Tom Brady swung his legs around and planted his feet on the floor. Resignedly, Tom - Carlos now - sank to his knees and crawled to the bedside, between his employer's muscular legs. This was often part of the morning ritual, and he was used to it by now. Carlos wrapped his arms around the Tom Brady's trim waist, and nuzzled the bulge in his boxers. Carlos felt his employer's hand tussle his hair, and then urge his head forward, as he slipped his boxers down. Carlos opened his mouth and accepted the cock into his mouth. He did this with neither joy nor disgust – he was just doing what he had to do to keep his employer happy, just doing his job. He hadn't felt that way at first, of course. It took some time for Carlos - who was still, at least in his own mind, a straight, Anglo, jock - to get used to the idea that he was now another man's sex toy. The first night had been a living hell for him...

Part IV

"This can't be happening," Tom said to himself. The giant smiled down at him, then nodded across the room at the window. The glass reflected like a mirror, and Tom stared disbelieving at image of a tall, muscular jock holding a small, slender guy by the arm. The problem was, he wasn't the big guy - he was the little guy. He was the guy being held. He looked down at himself, and saw that he was wearing the maroon uniform of a bellboy. He read the name "Carlos" on the shiny brass nametag. The realization - the horror - dawned on Tom that the guy holding him firmly by the arm was no giant. In some way he wasn't Tom Brady anymore – someone had stolen his body, and he was trapped in this strange body, this smaller body. In the bellboy's body… WHICH JUST WASN'T POSSIBLE!

"It's okay, little guy," the giant said, releasing his grip on his arm slightly, and putting an arm around his slender shoulder. "I know it's going to be hard for all of this to sink in..."

"Please – what's happening? I don't understand…" Tom whispered.

"I know," the giant said. He sat Tom down in a chair, and squatted down in front of him. "I'll explain it to you…"

"Who – who are you?" Tom asked.

"I'm Tom Brady," he said simply.

"No," said Tom, struggling against the urge to cry. "I am Tom Brady…"

"Nope – not any more. You're Carlos… I don't know your last name."

Tom's head was spinning, but before he knew it he said, "Delgado…"

"Okay – good. You are Carlos Delgado…" Tom tired his best to listen to what this imposter was saying, but he found it hard to follow. The guy was speaking in a strange language. He was able to pick up about half of it. But he could follow well enough to understand that evil scientist guy – who now was residing in Tom's Body – had invented some mind transfer device. A couple months before he had been diagnosed with some degenerative neurological disease, and knew he would have to act quickly.

Tom interrupted at this point. "Please – it's hard for me to follow what you are saying. Could you please speak English?"

The imposter laughed. "What language do you think I've been speaking?"

"I… I don't know," Tom replied.

"English, dumbass. You don't even realize, do you? Every word you've said to me has been Spanish…"

As soon as Tom heard the words he knew that it was true – the TV, everything the imposter had said, had been in English. It was Tom, or whoever the fuck he was now, whose ability to understand it had been changed.

"It's okay, Carlos," the new Tom Brady said. "I'll talk slower so you can understand. At first I had just planned to use the bellboy – Carlos? He was young, handsome, and didn't have any family to complicate things. But when you walked into the picture – all cocky and tough – well, you understand I knew what I had to do. Now – poor Carlos is in my old body. The trauma of the transfer seems to have been too much – he's in the hospital as we speak. I don't think he's gonna make it…"

"Por que…" Tom began.

"Hey – English, okay?"

Tom tried to find the words in English. "But why you make me Carlos?"

"Well, I had to do something about Carlos – he knew too much already – but I also thought I should keep you around somehow if I was going to take over your life. I was afraid I would lose some of your knowledge when I took up residence in your body… Turns out I was wrong, though – I think I know everything about you. But hey – things could be worse. You could be stuck in a coma right now in stead of poor old Carlos…"

"Gracias..." Tom said sarcastically.

"I gotta tell you, though" the imposter said, patting his upper arms, "I just can't wait to try out these guns!"

"You mean you take my place in the game???" Tom asked.

"Hell yes! Why would I pass up the chance to be quarterback in the Super Bowl? I got the body, and I got the knowledge and skills..."

"But they is my skills…?" Tom whined in broken English.

"Yeah – but I got `em now. Kind of a package deal – they come with the body. Don't worry though – I'm sure you got some skills in the bargain. You're pretty good at carrying someone's suitcase for them I guess, and you give a pretty good blowjob..."

"A blowjob? I no understand..."

"C'mon, Carlos – think about it. How do you think I got you to come up to my room so late? You had a little side job going, remember?"

Tom was stunned. He shook his head in disbelief, but then of course he remembered – many of the wealthy guests offered Carlos large tips for extra services. "Pleas… please give me back my body," Tom pleaded, tears forming in his eyes. "I'll give you anything you want. I am rich – no? I will pay you…"

"No dice, Carlos," said the imposter. "Why would I want to give all this up? I'm afraid you are stuck where you are."

"But… what happens to me?"

The imposter shrugged. "That's up to you. Although the way I see it, you haven't got too many options. I know it won't be easy for you to adjust to your new life, Carlos, but it doesn't have to be real bad unless you make it that way. If you want to be difficult, I could just call the INS on you – they'd probably have your ass back in Mexico before sundown…"

"Cuba," Tom corrected meekly.

"Whatever," the imposter continued. "I guess maybe I could just leave you here in Jacksonville, you know? You could keep working as a bellhop and turning tricks… Course – that would be a couple of steps down for a hotshot like you. Sort of a hard life for you, don't you think? Now if I were you I'd play along, come back to Boston with me. That way you could work for me –take care of things, you know? – and still live in your old house and see your old friends…"

The idea of being stuck as a bellboy in a strange city – or worse yet to be shipped back to Cuba and the life that awaited him there – terrified Tom. He needed to stay with this imposter, no matter the cost. Partly so he could still have some semblance of his old life, but more so, so he could maybe figure out how to get his life back.

"Pleas…" Tom began in halting English. "Pleas don' leaf me. Por favor, please, take me home with you…:

"Well – I could do that. Take you back to Boston with me, I mean. But I'd have to be able to trust you, you know? You'd have to prove that you'd do whatever I told you to do, that you wouldn't try to cause any trouble. Ever…"

"I'll… I'll do whatever you want."

"Say it again, only call me by my name."

"But I don know your name…"

The imposter reached down and grabbed him by the lapels of his uniform jacket. "I'm TOM BRADY, and don't you ever fucking forget it!" he shouted angrily.

Tom found himself shaking in fright. "Please, Señor…Señor Brady, please take me with you to Boston. I work for you, I do what you tell me and don cause no trouble…"

"If only there were something you could do to convince me…" the imposter smiled. "Hey – I got an idea. Howsabout you get over here and blow me?"

Tom was horrified. "Que? Please no, Señor Tom…"

"C'mon, Carlos, I'm sure you remember how," the imposter said with a laugh, sliding his jeans and boxer shorts down and freeing his huge cut cock. "Besides, haven't you ever wanted to suck your own cock?"

Tom made no move to comply, but he couldn't take his eyes off the large cock. He'd always been proud of his endowment, but it had never looked quite as huge as it did right now. No wonder all the chicks who'd ever blown him had seemed to have a hard time with it. But there was no way he was going to suck a cock…

"Listen to me, if you aren't down on your faggot knees with my cock in your mouth in five seconds – I'm gonna walk over to that phone and call the cops. And when they find out that you don't have a green card or anything, you'll be on the next plane to Mexico or whatever the fuck country you're from." The imposter reached over and picked up the phone. "It's your choice, Carlos…"

Tom sunk to his knees, and stared in terror at the monster cock in front of him. He'd seen that cock every day of his life, but of course never from this angle, never from below. It looked huge and ugly to him now, like some dangerous animal. None of this made any sense. Why did this imposter want Tom to blow him? He knew that if it were him, he'd never let some greasy wetback within a mile of his cock…

And then it hit him – that's all he was now. Not a famous jock. Not some an all-American stud. Not famous or rich. Nope – just a little nobody without a green card or any prospects. Much as he hated to admit it – his best shot was sticking with this imposter. Just get through this, he said to himself. Just get through this one thing and you'll figure out what to do next. There has to be a way out of all this, but you have to do this thing now. He reached out and took the cock – his cock – in his hand. Tom looked up at the imposter, meekly nodded his assent. Then, his eyes closed, he opened his mouth…

Part V

Tom wasn't sure which was harder to believe: that he had a cock in his mouth, or that the cock he was sucking was actually his own. Its head was huge, almost filling his mouth. While it was hard as a rock, it felt soft and moist in his mouth, almost like a sponge. But even before Tom had time to give the matter a second thought, he felt a hand on the back of his head, and suddenly the monster cock began to inch further into his mouth, deeper down his throat.

"Get to work down there, Carlos – they don't call it a blow-job for nothing…"

Tom began to suck, and work his tongue, drawing on skills he didn't even know he had. The imposter was right – Carlos was a skilled cocksucker. The imposter then began really fucking Carlos's mouth – pulling out so that only the head remained in the mouth, and then pushing back so that his nose would become buried in the imposter's bush. Tom hated it – feeling so used. It was disgusting. It was humiliating. And, he was beginning to realize, it was turning him on. His own (new?) cock was straining against his fly. Tom had always experienced a bit of pride whenever he gripped his cock. He'd always loved the way his cock felt in the grip of his fist. But as he unconsciously reached down and into his pants, he didn't find the ten-inch meat he expected. First of all, it was uncut – the head was buried within folds of skin. He had of course seen uncircumcised cocks before, but he'd never felt one. It felt – sort of alien to him. Worse yet – it was small. Very much smaller. His fist enclosed it completely. It was like he had someone else's tiny cock in his hand. Tears ran down his cheeks as he hungrily sucked another guy's cock that was really his own, and jerked his own pathetic little cock that was really someone else's.

He looked up at the imposter. The chiseled abs. The powerful chest. The square jaw. The dimpled chin. The piecing eyes. Tom Brady, he thought. This couldn't be fucking real. The imposter's eyes rolled back as, and his breath caught. Tom noticed the cock in his mouth begin to twitch, as shot after shot of thick cum filled his mouth. He'd never tasted another man's cum before, and of course, this wasn't another man's cum, was it? He swallowed hungrily, and licked his lips as it all came crashing down on him. Yesterday he was a famous sports star. And now – he was a cocksucker, on his knees, worshipping before the god that he once had been, savoring the load of cum he had just been given.

The imposter reached down and tussled Tom's hair affectionately. "Well that's more like it. Okay then, I guess we got a deal, right? I take you back to Boston with me, and you do whatever I tell you."

"Si, Señor - please…" Tom pleaded.

"And I'm Tom Brady and you are Carlos, right?"

"Si, Señor Brady…"

"Well, I need to get some sleep, buddy, and I'm sure you need to get home or back to work or something. I'll leave you a ticket at the front desk before I leave town…

"Si, Señor Brady…"

* * *

It had been very hard for him at first, and truth be told, he had thought about killing himself when he left the hotel that first day and took the bus to the dingy room he rented. Never in his life had Tom lived in such conditions. He'd never even considered that people might have to live like this. Any doubt he had about taking the new Tom Brady's offer vanished at that moment.

Tom worked the rest of that week as Carlos the Bellhop, but he didn't see the Patriots' quarterback. He was terrified that he might be left behind. Finally though, the day after the game, an envelope was left for him at the front desk containing a one-way Greyhound ticket to Boston. Tom nearly cried, he was so relieved.

The bus ride was nothing like the first class treatment he had been accustomed to since college, and it took him two days to reach Boston. Once in Boston, he made his way to the wealthy neighborhood that was both familiar and foreign to him now, and knocked on the front door of the house he had bought with the bonus from his first Superbowl victory. The imposter opened the door and looked him up and down.

"It's about time!" he said. "I'm having a party tonight - to celebrate, you know – and there's a lot for you to do. You better get cleaned up first, though – you look like some sort of bum." Tom knew it must be true - he hadn't showered in a couple days. "I am sorry," he struggled in English. "I have rided on the bus for a long time and didn't have no time to shower or nothing..." The imposter placed his hand on Tom's thin neck and guided him into the house. Tom had assumed for some reason that he'd be staying in one of the rooms upstairs, but the new Tom was moving him through the kitchen, and into the small room that was to be his home now. The maid's room.

The party that night was worse than anything he could imagine. When he answered the door for the first guest and saw Tedy Bruschi standing there, he wanted to die. Here was one of his best friends in the world, and he practically looking right through him. That and the fact that Tedy, whom he normally towered over, was nearly a head taller than him now. Walking around the house that night, serving drinks and hors d'oeuvres, it all came crashing down on him. He was surrounded by the people he loved most in this world, and he was nothing to them. It was like he didn't even exist to them unless their drink needed topping off. When he spilled a little beer on Adam Vinatieri's shoe, he instinctively dropped to his knees in front of everybody and wiped it clean. Worse still was watching the new Tom hamming it up with the guys, celebrating and thumping chests with his friends. By the time the last guest had left, poor Carlos was practically in tears.

He had just begun to clean up when the new Tom entered the kitchen. "I'm gonna go to bed now, Carlos, but I figured you'd get me off before I head upstairs..." Standing there in the kitchen, the imposter dropped his jeans and stood there expectantly.

"Señor Tom?" Carlos asked?

"Look, dude, this is the deal. Okay? I brought you up here to take care of things for me. And this..." he grabbed his massive dick and gave it a shake in Tom's direction, "is one of the things you are going to be taking care of." Carlos's heart sunk and he slowly crossed the room. He dropped to his knees, as if before a god. Just get through today, he told himself as he closed his eyes and took the massive cock into his mouth.

* * *

As Carlos sucked Tom Brady's 10 inch monster, and jerked his own little cock in rhythm, he had to admit to himself that his new life wasn't all that bad. Despite the fact that he had never considered himself gay, he now came to look forward to these sessions. He craved the attention, and it was really all the attention he ever got. Sure he had lost his place in world; lost his position as one of the most famous, rich, and handsome athletes in the world. But things could be much worse. His employer – the man whose cock he now sucked – reminded him of that every day. He knew that if he displeased this man he would be out on his ass. Living as a servant in the luxurious house that he once owned was better than turning tricks on the street. Or worse – he could be stuck in Florida still, or sent back in Cuba.

But perhaps the fact that he had to watch someone else living his old life on a daily basis made the new one seem worse than it actually was. After all, he had a comfortable place to live, and an easy job. He wanted for nothing, really. No doubt that the real Carlos would have considered it a pretty good deal.

Each day he lived as Carlos, it became harder and harder for him to think of himself as the real Tom Brady. He sometimes even caught himself admiring his employer's handsome face and muscular build, and thinking how lucky he was to be such a famous athlete's houseboy. Such thoughts, when they occurred, usually drove him into a depression. It was bad enough to have your life stolen from you, but to find yourself getting turned on by the guy was nearly intolerable.

Carlos felt his master's cock give the familiar twitch, and he sucked hungrily, knowing that he was about to get his reward. Tom Brady shot his massive load into Carlos's mouth. For Carlos, it was like he was receiving a fix. He swallowed eagerly, and shot his own tiny load in his pants.

Tom Brady stood up, knocking Carlos back onto his ass.

"Okay – good job," he said, reaching down and tussling his servant's hair affectionately. Carlos felt a rush of pride at his master's praise.

"Well, I'm sure you have a lot of shit to do today…" This was his dismissal, Carlos realized, and jumped to his feet.

"Gracias, Señor Tom…" Carlos backed out of his employer's room, bowing submissively, and rushed down the back stairs with the breakfast dishes. Señor Tom was right, of course. There was a lot of work to get done today…

El Fin