Renee Winter
has been writing poems and stories for most of her life, but took the deep
dive into writing daily just this year. She administrates two online
poetry boards, one for adults, one for children. When she is not
online, she's busy teaching middle schoolers language arts and drama. (Not
to mention keeping track of her two beautiful young daughters and her passionate
husband of twenty years.) Erotica has always been a pleasurable outlet
and Renee knows her own desire to explore will continue to inspire. She
has been published in the September issue of Thunder Sandwich.
E-mail
Renee Winter. Visit
Renee Winter's Poetry Board (listed as chanson)
Hanging In
My Closet
You awoke me with kisses
on my forehead and shoulders
your lips warm with sleep.
Your eyes spoke,
"I have a plan,"
as you led me to my closet
door.
Inside, I felt surrounded
by familiar
dark garments.
You raised my hands over
my head
which in and of itself always
makes me
tremble.
Soft cotton rope tied me
to the wooden pole
above my head and my tethering
comforted me
as I hung cautiously in
the semi-dark.
Next something thick and
rubbery entered my
honeyspot, squeezing, I
answered its command.
Then another more slender
coldness filled me
further back and I jolted
a bit forward
not quite able to escape
its penetration.
More ropes bound my breasts
my pert thimbles calling
for a nibble,
then strands to hold each
nether lip open and
more
to hold those pretending-to-be-gentlemen
probes in place.
You closed the closet door
and left me
with the weight of hanging
tenuously
not wanting to break the
wooden pole which held me there
my toes keeping a delicate
balance with the floor,
yet knowing as I lowered
myself onto
my crotch-bindings I could
give myself my own
thickening pleasure.
I allowed myself a good testing
of the ropes and
how much tautness could
be
tolerated.
I moaned to no one
and came
my animal grindings
unnoticed by my hung garments.
Much later
you returned
and swatted my ass til pink
was a color
that alas did flatter them.
Moving aside the ropes
that kept my boys in their
positions,
rescinding their privileges
for the time being,
you took me fiercely pounding
my heldness
begging my cries for release
from my cloister,
reliving the yielding of
a tender fruit
to the plucker’s palm.
We arrived together,
you clutching my hips to
yours.
Adept with unknottings,
you freed me
and I collapsed on our black
bed,
relishing the gift of surrender.
Copyright
© 2001 Renee Winter. All rights reserved.
Instruct Me
Teach me how to
bow low how to
undo old knotted tennis
shoe
laces how to
make you cum with just
my tongue how to
howl like a caged animal
lusting for release
relent reinvent me
show me how to
read you read freshness
reach under your fingernails
scrape out old skin
profess you know me
then question my delicate
underbelly tornflesh emotions
that intimidate your very
power over me pinch
my nose make me
laugh at your antics as
you
strive to find my heel of
virginity take me to dark
warehouses drenched in
strung beings firewalking
for
not-so-tender soles
seek that spot where my
circle is unmet and
solder that gap with something
like a bridge, a suspension
bridge allowing me con-
nection tween my
sighs my cries sir
show me my mirror
break no reflection no
glazed gazing do not
shield my
recognition.
Copyright
© 2001 Renee Winter. All rights reserved.
Matinee
She walks into the darkened
theatre,
movie already begun, titles
over, intrigue initiated,
she steps
cautiously but sprightly
into the farthest back
row.
Sitting beside the man on
the aisle,
alone, the two of them,
side by side,
adjusts herself in her seat,
her
long peasant skirt cool,
hiding
long slim legs.
Top too hot, unbuttons one
or two, a
glance askew, a glance again,
then,
eyes, turned head,
turned mind, she sees,
he sees.
Daring hand to mount his
fly,
and make him, make him
sigh, and oh, she
does like khakis, soft but
stiff, a garment meant to
touch a bit, yes,
eyes avert the others’ eyes,
but loins are full and knowing
is
knowing,
and something is, yes,
something is growing, she
keeps a
strength, a surety, certainty.
Skirt, like curtain, needs
a-raising,
manhand, please, slide up
and
take a tiny, fleshfinger
find her,
sweetest discovery,
hands meet
meats and rawest clover
honey, zipzip open up his
portal, take, oh slip onto
a
waiting lap, a rising up
and
lowering, oh such
slow a threshold making
entrances and exits,
neck is lavished with his
lips upon such hungry throat,
a cry well-timed, a scene
change
keeping privacy so public,
heads will turn and see
but
neither cares, it’s rim
and
ram and eyelids closing,
yes, love’s sluice,
no use in disengaging,
scene again is changing,
thank god matinees are mostly
older ladies nodding off
to
sleep, so far from rest,
so close to dream, a
stream, a silent scream,
a
climbing, climbing,
‘nonymous reaching,
seeking, yes, a height,
a
closest head to chest as
just
a moment’s stopping is now
here, at last.
The scene has ended, catching
breath at climaxed
concrete confidence.
She slips away, off khaki
crotch, and down the aisle,
the
matinee’s conclusion coming,
opens door and out into
the
brightest blinding sunlight,
tender strangeness
knowing
all was
met,
well
met.
Copyright
© 2001 Renee Winter. All rights reserved. |