Fuller Brush Salesman

The August heat weighed heavy as Harold Beech straightened his tie—too tight and frayed from years of wear—before trudging up the brick walkway to the front door of a neatly kept ranch house. His worn brown suit clung to him uncomfortably, and his polished shoes, once shiny, were scuffed from miles of walking door-to-door. The Fuller Brush salesman’s case swung in his hand, its brass latch catching the sunlight.

He paused on the porch, glancing around. The yard was pristine, with a white picket fence, a rosebush neatly trimmed along the path, and a single lawn chair set under the shade of a maple tree. Typical suburban perfection. Harold pulled out his handkerchief, dabbed his forehead, and knocked twice on the white door, the sound crisp against the late-afternoon hum of cicadas.

The door opened, and Harold blinked at the man standing before him. He was around Harold’s age—mid-fifties, maybe a touch older—but carried himself with an ease that Harold envied. The man’s short-cropped silvering hair was combed back, glinting in the sun like polished steel. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, tucked into pressed tan slacks held up by a thin leather belt. A pair of house slippers peeked out from under the hem, making him seem both casual and precise.

“Good afternoon,” the man greeted, his deep voice steady but friendly. He leaned slightly on the doorframe, one hand resting on the edge, his wedding ring finger noticeably bare.

“Afternoon, sir,” Harold replied, his salesman’s instincts kicking in. “Name’s Harold Beech. I’m your Fuller Brush man, and I’m stopping by to see if you might be interested in our latest household essentials. Everything you need to keep a fine home like this one in tip-top shape.”

The man’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, his gray eyes taking Harold in with a quick, appraising glance. “Well, I can’t say I was expecting company. Come in, Mr. Beech.”

Harold hesitated. It wasn’t every day that someone actually invited him in. Usually, the best he got was a polite “no, thank you” or a slammed door. “That’s mighty kind of you, sir,” he said, tipping his hat and stepping inside.

The entryway was immaculate, with polished hardwood floors that reflected the light from a glass lamp on a mid-century modern console table. The faint smell of lemon oil mingled with the aroma of coffee. Harold glanced around as he followed the man into the living room. It was a snapshot of the times: a low-slung couch upholstered in green, a matching armchair with tufted buttons, and a sleek mahogany coffee table holding an ashtray and a copy of Life magazine featuring Eisenhower on the cover.

“Name’s Edward,” the man said, gesturing for Harold to take a seat on the couch. “Ed, to my friends. Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea, maybe? You look like you’ve been working hard today.”

Harold adjusted his tie and sat on the edge of the couch, his case resting at his feet. “Iced tea sounds real nice, thank you, Ed.”

“Be right back.” Ed disappeared into the kitchen, his footsteps soft on the floor. Harold took the moment to glance around more thoroughly. A console stereo stood in one corner, and a stack of records leaned against it. Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Benny Goodman—classy, refined choices. On the mantel above the fireplace was a collection of small ceramic animals, neatly arranged but with no personal photographs in sight. No signs of a wife or children.

Ed returned with two tall glasses of iced tea on a metal tray, the ice clinking softly as he handed one to Harold. The glass was sweating, the cool condensation a relief against Harold’s palm. Ed sat across from him in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other, his posture relaxed but attentive.

“So,” Ed said, nodding toward the case. “What do you have in there, Mr. Beech? Something to make my life easier, I hope?”

Harold chuckled nervously, flipping open the case to reveal its contents. “You bet. Brushes for just about everything—windows, tile, upholstery—and our Miracle Polishing Paste. Best shine you’ll ever see. And all made to last.”

Ed leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked over the items. His gaze lingered on Harold’s hands as he held up a brush, the salesman’s fingers slightly calloused but steady. “Impressive,” Ed said. “I can tell you’ve been doing this a while. Do you enjoy the work?”

The question caught Harold off guard. Most customers didn’t ask about him—they were too busy trying to get rid of him. “Well, it’s steady work,” he said after a moment, setting the brush back in the case. “Gets me out and about. Meet all kinds of people.”

“And what kind of people do you usually meet?” Ed asked, his tone light but probing.

“Folks who don’t often have time for a brush salesman,” Harold admitted with a sheepish grin. “Most folks just want me on my way.”

“Well,” Ed said, sitting back with a small smile, “I’m not most folks.”

“Now, let me show you what these beauties can do,” Harold said, pulling out a rug brush with densely packed bristles and a sturdy wooden handle. “This little number’s perfect for rugs like yours. Gets all the dirt and hair up without damaging the fibers.”

Ed raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Well, that rug gets a lot of traffic. Let’s see if it’s worth the pitch.”

Harold chuckled, already shrugging out of his suit jacket. He folded it neatly over the back of a chair and loosened his tie. Then, with a grunt, he lowered himself onto his knees, the wooden floor creaking faintly beneath his weight.

“Alright,” Harold said, positioning himself over a section of the rug near the coffee table. “This here’s a high-traffic spot. Got some dust, maybe a few crumbs.”

He began brushing with rhythmic strokes, the stiff bristles gliding smoothly over the fabric. Dust and debris started collecting in small piles at the edge of the bristles. Harold’s movements were precise, almost meditative, as he explained, “The trick is in the angle. See how the bristles lift everything out without snagging? And it works on everything—pet hair, crumbs, even sand.”

Ed stepped closer, crouching slightly to get a better view. His sharp gray eyes followed the neat pile of debris forming at the edge of the brush. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “That’s doing a better job than my vacuum.”

Harold glanced up, grinning despite the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “That’s what I like to hear.” He swept the pile into his dustpan and sat back on his heels, holding the brush up for inspection. “Solid craftsmanship. These bristles are built to last, and the handle’s real wood—none of that plastic junk.”

Ed reached out, taking the brush from Harold’s hands. His fingers brushed Harold’s briefly, and though the touch was incidental, Harold felt a flicker of warmth. Ed turned the brush over in his hands, inspecting it like a man who appreciated quality.

“You make a good case, Harold,” Ed said finally, a smile tugging at his lips.

Ed straightened and set the brush aside, his gaze lingering on Harold with a flicker of curiosity. "You're quite the salesman. But I can't help but notice—you’re more than that. You’re thorough, hardworking. Makes me wonder what else you're good at."

Harold blinked, momentarily thrown off by the remark. He shifted, rising stiffly from the floor and brushing off his knees. “Well, uh, I pride myself on doing an honest job, sir.”

“Ed,” the man corrected with a grin, standing as well. He stepped closer, not enough to be imposing, but enough to blur the line between casual friendliness and something more. “And you’ve got nothing to prove, Harold. I can see the kind of man you are.”

Harold’s pulse quickened. Ed’s presence filled the room in a way Harold wasn’t used to, as though the air itself thickened around him. “I... appreciate that,” Harold said, clearing his throat and glancing toward the case. “But it’s my job to make the sale, you know?”

“And you’re good at it,” Ed replied smoothly. He placed a hand on Harold’s arm, a brief touch that felt both grounding and electrifying. “But sometimes, a man deserves a moment to relax. You’re working so hard in this heat, Harold. Why not sit down and let me return the favor?”

Harold’s breath caught. “Return the favor?” he echoed, unsure whether he’d heard right—or if his mind had wandered into forbidden territory.

Ed smiled, slow and easy. He stepped back toward the couch and gestured for Harold to sit. “You’ve been working all day, haven’t you? Let me make you comfortable for a change. A man can’t give his best if he’s running on empty.”

Harold hesitated, the weight of propriety pulling at him. Yet something in Ed’s voice—steady, warm, inviting—undid him. Before he could think better of it, Harold found himself sitting on the edge of the couch again. His heart thudded against his ribs as Ed returned to the armchair, taking his glass of iced tea and raising it in a casual toast.

“To good work—and to good company,” Ed said, his eyes never leaving Harold.

Harold swallowed hard, lifting his own glass in a shaky response. “To good company,” he murmured. He took a sip, the cold tea doing little to quell the warmth spreading through him.

For a moment, silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken questions and possibilities. Ed leaned back, his gaze steady, and Harold felt as though the room itself was holding its breath.

The words hung in the air, and Harold felt their weight settle on him. He looked up, meeting Ed’s steady gaze. Those gray eyes were unreadable yet inviting, like the open door of a room Harold wasn’t sure he was allowed to enter.

"You’ve got a way with words, Ed," Harold said, his voice uneven. He set his glass down beside Ed’s, his hand trembling slightly as he pulled it away. "Makes a man feel... seen."

Ed leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The distance between them shrank, and Harold caught the faint scent of Ed’s aftershave—clean, crisp, and undeniably masculine. "And what do you see when you look at me, Harold?" Ed asked, his voice soft but firm, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

Harold’s breath hitched. He felt the weight of the question pressing against his chest, the answer lodged somewhere between fear and longing. "I—" He faltered, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I see a man who’s got it all figured out."

Ed chuckled, the sound rich and warm, as though Harold had said something profoundly clever. "Far from it," he said, his eyes glinting with something Harold couldn’t quite name. "But I know what I want when I see it."

The room felt smaller now, the hum of cicadas outside muted by the pounding of Harold’s heartbeat. Ed reached out, his hand resting lightly on Harold’s knee. The touch was gentle but firm, the kind that could be brushed off as casual if not for the way Ed’s thumb stroked the fabric of Harold’s trousers in a slow, deliberate arc.

"Tell me, Harold," Ed said, his voice dropping into a near whisper. "When was the last time someone looked at you the way I’m looking at you right now?"

Harold’s throat tightened. He wanted to answer, wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he looked at Ed, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The heat of the afternoon seemed to pale in comparison to the fire crackling between them.

Ed leaned closer, his free hand reaching up to adjust Harold’s tie—loosening it just enough to reveal the flushed skin of his neck. "Let me take care of you for a change," Ed murmured, his lips so close that Harold could feel the faint warmth of his breath. "If only for a little while."

Harold swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears. And then, as though the weight of years spent resisting had finally crumbled, he nodded.

Ed’s smile deepened, the kind of smile that felt like a secret, shared just between them. Slowly, he stood, his hand slipping from Harold’s knee but brushing briefly against his arm—a touch that lingered like an unspoken promise.

"Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?" Ed said, his voice soft but steady. He gestured toward the couch, the leather creaking faintly as Harold shifted to sit back. "I’ll be right back."

Harold nodded, his throat too tight to respond, and watched as Ed disappeared down the hallway. For a moment, the house seemed impossibly quiet. Harold’s hands rested on his knees, his fingers drumming nervously against the worn fabric of his trousers. What was he doing? What was about to happen?

When Ed returned, he held a small tray with a decanter of amber liquid and two crystal glasses. The light caught the decanter, refracting warm hues across the room as he set the tray on the coffee table. "Bourbon," Ed said simply, pouring a generous measure into each glass. "Nothing fancy, but it does the job."

Harold took the glass Ed handed him, his fingers brushing Ed’s briefly. The bourbon was smooth, its warmth spreading through his chest with each sip, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from Ed as he sat down beside him. Not across the room this time, but close—close enough that their knees almost touched.

"You know," Ed said after a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass, "a man like you deserves to be noticed. Appreciated." He looked at Harold, his eyes steady and unflinching. "I hope you know that."

Harold shifted, the words sinking in and settling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. "I’m just a brush salesman," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing special about me."

Harold looked down at Ed’s hand, the weight of it grounding him even as his heart raced. "You don’t even know me," he said, though the protest sounded weak even to his own ears.

Ed’s thumb stroked gently against Harold’s sleeve. "Don’t I?" he asked, his gaze searching Harold’s face. "I know enough to see a man who’s spent too long hiding from what he wants."

Harold sat back slightly, his gaze flickering over Ed’s face as he tries to process what is happening. The warmth of Ed’s hand on his shoulder still lingered, grounding him in a way that felt new and unsettling. He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he glanced down at the bourbon glass still clutched in his hand.

“You’ve got a way of catching a man off guard,” Harold said, his voice low but edged with a nervous chuckle. “Don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you.”

Ed shook his head slowly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You’ve got something special, Harold. And I’m not just talking about your knack for cleaning rugs.” He chuckled softly, and the sound sent a warm shiver through Harold’s chest.

Harold swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the glass. “This kind of talk...it ain’t exactly what I’m used to,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not something folks look kindly on.”

The words hung between them, heavy and undeniable. Harold opened his mouth to continue, but before he could, Ed closed the space between them. His hand slid from Harold’s arm to his shoulder, and then he leaned in, his lips brushing Harold’s in a kiss that was both tentative and sure, testing the waters but leaving no doubt about his intent.

For a moment, Harold froze, his mind racing. But then the warmth of Ed’s lips melted his hesitation, and he found himself leaning into the kiss, his hand coming up to rest against Ed’s chest. The world outside faded as Harold let himself be drawn into the moment.

Ed’s hand slid up to cradle the back of Harold’s neck, his thumb brushing against the soft skin beneath his ear. His touch was gentle, yet insistent, and as he leaned in closer, Harold felt the warmth of his breath against his cheek. The salesman’s eyes fluttered shut, and without another word, Ed stood, his grip on Harold’s arm firm but reassuring. He led him down the hallway, past framed photographs and closed doors, until they reached the quiet sanctuary of the master bedroom.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to keep out the harsh afternoon sun, and the scent of Old Spice and freshly laundered sheets filled the air. With a gentle nudge, Ed guided Harold to the bed, his hands moving to the buttons of his shirt, unfastening them one by one with a deftness that spoke of practice and patience. Harold’s heart hammered in his chest as he felt the fabric part, the cool air of the room kissing his damp skin. He could hear his own ragged breaths as Ed’s fingertips danced along his collarbone, the anticipation of what was to come a delicious agony that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long. With trembling hands, Harold reached to help, but Ed’s voice was soft yet firm. “Let me,” he whispered, his breath tickling Harold’s neck as he pushed the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. The weight of the garment leaving him felt like shedding a burden, revealing the truth of who he was and what he desired, laid bare in the soft light of a suburban afternoon.

Ed’s mouth found its way to one of Harold’s large nipples, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before he took it into his mouth and began to suck gently. Harold gasped, his body responding to the sensation with a jolt of pleasure that traveled from his chest to his groin. The warmth of Ed’s breath against his skin sent shivers down his spine, and Harold felt himself melting into the bed, his body craving more of this unexpected but longed-for attention. The world outside the bedroom door faded away, leaving only the two of them and the quiet rustle of fabric as Ed’s deft hands continued to explore him.

With a grace that seemed almost predatory, Ed stood, peeling his own shirt over his head and unbuckling his belt. His torso was a masculine shape, the type Harold would peek at others at the lake. The silver of his hair was mirrored in the light dusting of chest hair that trailed down to the waistband of his slacks. He stepped closer to Harold, their bare chests now a whisper apart, and with trembling hands, Harold undid the Ed’s fly.

Their bodies met in a tangle of limbs and soft sighs, the roughness of Ed’s chest hair brushing against the smoother skin of Harold’s belly, sending a jolt of electricity through him. The unfamiliar pressure of another man’s erection against his own made him gasp, his eyes flying open to meet Ed’s knowing gaze. The air in the room was thick with tension, the only sound their ragged breaths mingling. Ed’s hands slid to Harry’s waist, his thumbs hooking into the elastic of his boxers, and with one swift tug, they were gone, leaving the two men naked and entwined.

The feeling of bare skin on skin was intoxicating, a revelation that sent a shiver through Harold’s body. He reached out, his fingers tracing the contours of Ed’s chest, the soft fur of his belly, and the strength of his thighs. The brush of their pubic hair was a sensation so alien and yet so right that it stole his breath away. Their cocks brushed against one another, hot and eager, the precum already starting to bead at their tips.

Ed’s hand found its way to the back of Harold’s neck again, pulling him into a deep, hungry kiss that tasted of bourbon and promise. Their tongues danced, exploring and claiming, as their bodies aligned, hips grinding together in a silent rhythm that spoke of shared need. The mattress squeaked faintly beneath them, a secret witness to their union as the tension grew, tightening like a coil ready to spring.

As they kiss, Ed’s hand drifts down to grasp Harold’s erection, stroking him with a firm, practiced touch that makes Harold moan into the kiss. The sensation is overwhelming, and for a moment, he’s lost in the feeling of being desired and desired.

Ed’s hand was a warm, strong presence around his cock, stroking him with a rhythm that seemed to know his body better than he did himself. The sensation was new, overwhelming, and incredibly, unbearably good. Harold’s hips bucked up into the touch, his moan muffled by their melded mouths. He felt Ed’s arousal pressing against his own, hard and insistent, and the thrill of it all was like nothing he’d ever known. The hand on his neck guided him back onto the bed, Ed’s body following, his mouth never leaving Harold’s.

Their legs tangled together as Ed’s strokes grew more deliberate, the sound of skin on skin a quiet counterpoint to the frantic beat of their hearts. Harold’s hand found its way to Ed’s erection, his palm gliding along the velvety length, feeling the pulse of life beneath his fingertips. The sensation was strange, powerful, and incredibly erotic—knowing that he was the one bringing this other man pleasure, that he was desired in return.

Their kisses grew sloppy with passion, their breaths coming in harsh pants as their bodies moved together in a silent dance of need. The warmth of the room was a cocoon around them, the outside world a distant memory. All that existed was the heat of their bodies, the friction of skin, and the desperate need to be closer, to consume each other until there was nothing left but the sweet oblivion of release.

And as the pressure built, as the coil grew tighter, Harold realized that maybe, just maybe, he’d been looking for this all along.

With a gentle nudge, Ed guided the tip of his arousal to Harold’s mouth. The brush salesman’s eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. He parted his lips, feeling the heat of Ed’s shaft against them. With a mix of trepidation and curiosity, Harold took Ed’s penis into his mouth, tentative at first. The taste was unfamiliar yet tantalizing, and as he began to suck, a surprising pleasure bloomed within him. Ed’s soft groan of satisfaction encouraged him, and with each stroke of his tongue, the tension in the room grew thicker, more palpable. Harold’s inhibitions melted away with every pass, the intimate act unlocking something primal and eager within him. His eyes never left Ed’s, the intensity of hisgaze guiding him, teaching him what he wanted, what he needed. And as the sounds of their shared passion grew, so too did the realization that, in this secretive embrace, he had finally found a place where he could be fully himself, no longer hiding from his desires.

Harold’s mouth found its own rhythm on Ed’s hard length, the sound of their panting filled the room, their bodies moving in silent symphony. Ed’s hand left Harold’s cock, sliding down to cup his ass, squeezing the firm flesh and pulling him closer. Suddenly, Ed broke away, panting heavily.

“On your back, Harry,” Ed murmured, his voice thick with desire.

The instruction was clear, and Harold’s body responded almost instinctively, rolling over to lie on the cool, crisp sheets. Harold felt his heart race as Ed reached into the nightstand, pulling out a small bottle of oil and a soft, clean cloth.

The anticipation was a living thing, coiling in Harry’s belly as Ed knelt between his legs. The cool touch of the cloth against his heated skin was a stark contrast, sending shivers up his spine as Ed gently spread his legs wider, his eyes dark with hunger.

“Just relax, Harry,” Ed whispered, his voice soothing and firm. “It’ll be good for us both, I promise.”

With those words, Ed began to prepare him. The oil coated his skin in a slick, arousing sensation that only grew more intense with each passing moment. Harold's body tensed with anticipation, ready for the pleasure he knew was coming. Ed's finger breached the tight ring of muscle, causing Harold's hips to rise off the bed in ecstasy. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling, but it didn't feel wrong; instead, it felt like something he had been craving without even realizing it.

The anticipation built with every gentle press and retreat until Ed's hand was replaced by the blunt head of his throbbing cock. The pressure and stretch were almost painful, but it was a delicious agony that Harold couldn't get enough of. With Ed's gaze locked onto his own, Harold took a deep breath and pushed down, eagerly welcoming him inside.

Their eyes remained connected as Ed pushed in deeper, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully seated within Harold's body. The feeling of being claimed and filled in such an intimate and primal way sent shivers of pleasure through Harry's entire being. It was as though a part of himself he never knew existed had been awakened and ignited.

And when Ed finally began to move, their bodies became one in a passionate dance that left them both gasping for breath. Their moans and cries echoed through the quiet house as they lost themselves in the intensity of their passion. In that moment, nothing else mattered except for the heat between them and the promise of overwhelming pleasure that awaited them.

As Ed's rhythm grew stronger, Harry's own need intensified, his body responding to the unfamiliar yet exquisite sensation. With each thrust, he felt a wave of pleasure wash over him, building in intensity. His hand reached down to grasp his own erection, moving in tandem with Ed's movements. The sight of their bodies joined together was like a scene from a passionate painting, every movement and touch a brushstroke of desire.

Ed leaned down, capturing Harry's mouth in another kiss, his tongue mimicking the same mesmerizing motion as his hips. The pressure continued to coil tighter and tighter within Harry's body until it was almost unbearable. But just as he thought he couldn't take it any longer, Harold's body released like a tightly wound spring, snapping with explosive force.

His orgasm tore through him like electricity, causing him to arch off the bed and cry out into Ed's mouth. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, a tumultuous crescendo that seemed to shake the very foundations of his being.

And as the tremors subsided, Ed followed him over the edge, their releases combining in a rush of warmth that solidified the bond between them. They lay there afterwards, panting and spent, their bodies glistening with sweat and oil. The only sound filling the room was the soft whisper of their mingled breaths, a reminder of the passion they had shared.

For a moment, Harold didn’t know what to say, and the silence stretched between them, charged with an electric tension. But as Ed’s hand moved from his shoulder to rest gently on his chest, just above his heart, Harold felt something shift. The years of loneliness, the weight of walking door-to-door, the exhaustion of being unnoticed—all of it seemed to melt away under Ed’s touch. It was as if, for the first time in a long while, someone had truly seen him.

Harold closed his eyes, his breath shaky as he leaned into Ed’s hand. His voice cracked when he spoke. “I’ve never felt… like this before.”

Ed’s voice was soft and steady. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... be here. With me.”

And in that moment, Harold knew. He didn’t need to understand everything right now. He didn’t need to figure it all out. All he needed to do was trust the feeling in his chest and let himself be present.

The cicadas outside hummed on, the afternoon fading into evening as the two men sat together in the quiet of the room, the world outside forgotten for just a little while.

And for the first time in years, Harold allowed himself to rest.