In spite of his being a tolerably big chap, and not so many months younger than Davenport, his cock was short, although thick. The tickling effects of the brush were too much for Lawrence and his cock refused to hang down in a becoming manner but wobbled about, half stiff. Bob administered sundry little touches to it when opportunity offered, in a sly attempt to increase its erection, so that when Bob stood back to admire his own handiwork and we all stood in a semi-circle about Lawrence, his member lay straight along his belly pointing towards his navel.

“What a shame to waste such a whale of a cockstand, hey gentlemen?” said Bob, yet another scheme already hatching in that swift and effervescent mind of his.

“But it would be a worse shame still to ruin your beautiful painting in lending that sallow chap a rub, wouldn't it?” added Jimmy.

“Hmm,” said Rutherford, “you do have a point, Duke. Perhaps the worldly Gaston has a solution to this dilemma. And it must be a quick one, as it seems young Lawrence's flag rides down its mast already.”

“Yes indeed, perhaps I do,” grinned Blackie as he stepped closer to the prone and nude junior Davenport. “While visiting with some of my more Bohemian acquaintances in Paris, I chanced upon a most peculiar method of artistic expression which I feel may have a special application here this afternoon. You see, the painter dips his foot in his color of choice…”

De Beaupre proceeded to dip his sandy foot into Bob's shell of paint and hopped gracefully to Lawrence's side, where he then pushed his dripping toes onto the bound young man's cock, ”…and voila!”

“Superior artistry!” I cried, as Blackie ran his foot messily up and down the shaft of Lawrence's member. In seconds we were all upon him, our toes squishing into the paint and then onto the groaning boy's groin. How we laughed when Lawrence finally came with a moan and a series of sharp squirts of spend into the tangled mass of our many-colored toes and his own freshly dyed and matted pubic hair.