Like The Trojan Horse

Like The Trojan Horse

It started with the snap of the buckle

The grating whisper of the zipper

It unleashed the scent – the musky, heady smell

Cramped in tight confines is the horse’s head

It wobbled slightly, getting ready for the journey

Itching to be free, like the armies of Greece

In the Trojan horse


Cupping his left cheek, I teased open a door

Moist and needy as my trained fingers find

I let myself in . . . and out

It became a mission to find the spot, I probe again.

And I invade like the army from the Trojan horse.


Peeling off black clothing, the horse is let loose

It races into the black tunnel

Enveloped by its moist warmth

Like the fire the army from the Trojan horse started

With every skill learnt in the training field

I get to work, unleashing fire

Urged on by the battle cry of my victim


Then I stopped


Sitting back on my knee

To savour the look on his face

Because a really good blowjob is like making a cake

The gathering of ingredients

The mixing and stirring

The slow baking in the warm oven of your mouth

Timing is everything.

So is the variety of flicks

The smooth feel of every lick

The gentle pull of the nicks

And the kisses that culminate with gentle persistent pressure


Then I leaned forward

And opened my mouth again

Wide enough for it to fill me up

It reached the back of my throat

Where I made gagging sounds

I unsheathed it from the safe keeping of my mouth

And held it

He let out a groan . . . of frustration

I held it in my hand, I kissed it again

And beat it against my left cheek severally

Before I tucked it safely in my mouth


And with a surge of excitement

Like several soldiers crying with one voice

The enemy trembled and let out battle cries

Spoils of war found their way into mouth

With a last pull, he is licked dry

And like a pack of cards

My chocolate truffle crumbled

His rigid erection from seconds before fell limp

Like the city of Troy


Everything with me is either worship and passion

Or pity and understanding

Some men eat flesh with silverware

Some use their hands

Some scrape flesh with knives

But me . . .

I prefer zippers – the meal nestled behind the zippers

Because to successively rule a kingdom

You’d do as you would cook a small fish.


So when he asked, “Will I see you again?”

I smiled

Because I realised

He was already a footstool.

Written by Vhar

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  1. Max 2.1
    February 25, 06:46 Reply

    All this poem for a beejay? Hmmm

  2. Mitch
    February 25, 08:57 Reply

    Bia OluwaVhar, abeg I have an exam today. Don’t make me start having fantasies when I’m meant to be writing.

  3. Ruby
    February 25, 10:46 Reply

    Issorait oh!!!!
    It have do you hear!!!!

  4. bruno
    February 25, 12:34 Reply

    the person who is actually a footstool here is a matter of perspective though ?

  5. tboixy
    February 25, 13:07 Reply

    Hmmmmm, You are Just Intimidating Us Virgins, with this, Abeg!!!!!, My Mouth is Not Ready for A Trojan Horse or wetin you call am

  6. Black
    February 25, 18:39 Reply

    Hmm very clever. Very good writing skill.

  7. Brian Collins
    February 26, 00:37 Reply

    Went from serious poetry to real porn and back. Loved it. Blowjobs for me is like making pancakes. The gathering the ingredients, the mixing, the pouring of small quantities of the mixture into the pan, flipping on to the other side and the finality of sliding a perfect pancake unto a plate.

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