Commercials, Mr. Clean/Scrubbing Bubbles scrubbers, raw
Mr. Clean never relied on other products before, and this could be why. The spray bottle lay on its side, nozzle leaking. The bubbles had risen so quickly, a mass of frothy white that pulsed and grew as he watched.
The shine of the bubbles were alluring, the pop of the largest like a coy wink. Mr. Clean inched away, his bare feet slipping on the damp tile. The wall met his back, shockingly cold, and the bubbles surged forward like an army to slip over his toes. The foamy caress worked higher up his foot, a mass separating and clinging to his fingers when he tried to brush them away.
The scrubbing action was delicate but thorough, tingling against his skin as the bubbles swarmed over him to work at his skin. He shivered as they crept up his legs, moved from his fingers to the skin on the inside bend of his elbow. Scrubscrubscrub. This was so dirty, and not dirty like a grimy floor, but in a way he couldn't comprehend.
Bubbles massed around his cock. The fresh scent had left him long since aroused and now they tingled and popped and worked his body to a frenzy. He didn't even have to touch himself. No wonder every surface could sparkle without the help of a good brisk brush.
Mr. Clean bit his lip, tormented by their thoroughness and the fear that he'd grown obsolete. He tried to protest, finally, but they just worked harder, scrubbing him raw, pushing him to the very limits until he had to clutch to the towel bar to stay standing.
Panting, Mr. Clean sank to the floor as the bubbles diligently cleaned up the mess they caused him to make.
And then in mere moments they were gone but for a thin filmy residue.