For those who have already read my profile and are returning for another wank over it, great news! This is the new and improved version as of 9.7.21, including NEW ingredients and generally making a bit more sense!
The brightest and best can swallow the lot in one sitting (?or kneeling), but some, em, less bright tell me the thing is too long. No secret I am going for the longest one on the site prize, which the owners will one day award me, I am sure. Anyway I have introduced little pointers (A) (B) etc in the text, showing where it hots up and briefs begin to tent. So please,ladies and gents, take your seats for a genuinely unique experience. If you want, just skip down to (A). I really think silverdaddies is an excellent site, and pity anyone who won't shell out a few groats for the freedom to write such an absurdly long piece of self exposure, nor enjoy the chat rooms. My damascus moment has arrived, and i will shortly be revising this blurb again, but as minimally as i can.
I am a very historic(al)(sic) person as can be seen from my new photo with mutton chop side beards! The kind who wonders about the deep unwritten past to aid in understanding the present, perhaps, and oneself? What the first act of bdsm looked like for an instance. S'pose the first caveman to bonk his woman on the nut with his knobkerry was the first domination specialist for copulation was clearly on his mind? and when a drunken Fred mistakenly dragged Barney back by the hair tied his wrists and slipped into his fundament were they the first gay bondage couple? And looking for a sadomasochist, surely it may have been Launcelot, with his messed up face and quiet demeanour, (for it's always, always the quiet ones!) who first used the gigantic dildo he'd lovingly fashioned with his little knife and which Gwinnie adored, on himself, eek, ouch, mmm? God, what would prehistoric panties look like (a few girls in the audience raise their hands) and, much more daunting, a jurassic clit cage? Oi.
Setting aside these futile speculations and in my dotage now, this brexitanian gent (and I object to having my country taken away from me by public school buffoons)(o now I've started ... is shrinking this country and stealing its real greatness in exchange for a mess of pottage)(and unless you are thinking of it, any Leaver who may have strayed here, I cannot talk to you, just cannot, unless you have a ripe developed sense of the absurd) is looking for a billet, a crib as our american cousins call it, to while away my (A)(mild twitch)autumnal days watching a nice girl with a callipygian rise just under her rara skirt and prominent dong (hopefully decorated with an attractive ball stretcher, and why not i hear you ask), serve me and my environs.
Can't be that difficult to find a free sissy can it (the sissy nature is one I find attractive, loyal, sweet, demure, petite and as dirty as fuck)? If it's really primitive bdsm you're after, i.e. paddling, thrashing, belting, whipping etc., well, dad can do that! if you need your bottom or, god help you the palm of your hand, beating, my tawse was delIvered yesterday (this written originally at the start of covid) to me here in Gateshead, twin of Newcastle, two of the few northern cities that allowed the tawse to be used on schoolchildren right up til the modern era. Here we have very modern sadists at work, generating all kinds of submissive neuroses for the future in the punished generation.
I wonder if my (used on many a tight young bottom) tawse is coming home, from Lochgelly the maker's place to here, and will it as in some Barrie/Disney fantasy, fly up singing Reindeers are better than people, and alsations are better than that, seek out all the little boy bottoms now fully grown and probably collapsing as old bums do) it ruined all those years ago and make amends. Suddenly I wonder how many kids it set on the road to addiction, needing a damn good beating forevermore. It may have been you, dear reader, and don't be shy to write and tell me as many have. Many lads have read this piece, and it doesn't take long to divine i am a dirty old man, to talk about their early experience - and as we talk, the message latency lengthens and it's clear wanking is afoot, and you realise these dark age memories still excite almost more than any subsequent romantic date).
It wasn't just the public schools that fanned the homophilic bonds that glued the empire together but ordinary common or garden schoolchildren, sons and daughters of the soil, or of mine workers or ship builders (and this city Newcastle upon Tyne was for a few short years the richest on the face of the earth).
It was also coming home for me to my first love, corporal punishment. And like many of minority tribe membership, jews especially according to Howard on BBT, I find myself asking Why Me? None of that at my London middle-class school. So when around 30 a lad I'd picked up in a toilet (and in my young day that was one of the few routes to sanity for boy children who were all crazy and mixed up, no internet then, no digital cameras, if you wanted your films processing you needed to sail safely past the dragon in the chemist's) said to me before our first indoor session he needed a firm hand, I was momentarily nonplussed, knowing (B)(warm)if I didn't rise to the occasion, he wouldn't let me near his pert arse and well-filled y fronts. (O those y fronts, and as we move on let's salute calvin klein, the genius who engineered those pants, reminiscent of uplift bras, with that clever little panel of near translucent cotton at the sides where the stiffening cock lands up and is visible, goggling and dribbling at you) I waited and then from within a mystery arose a hunger in me to punish that boy. 'I can do that' I growled, quaveringly. (What had he ever done to me, poor soul, for me to take such an anti rational route? - why, he's aroused my desire, the swine, disturbed my composure. Okay, good enough, so let's do it.)
And that was how it started. A mystery wrapped in a dilemma and tied up into a nice desirable submissive. If I'd not met him I might still be adopting the somewhat superior smirk of the vanilla smarty pants for those boys including me who like the mud and sojourn in the gutter.
(C)(good bit) I would never have met the dog boy walking his Dalmatian along that short Sunderland coastline; enabling dad to sample doggie world, dad finding great enjoyment licking the shaft and playing with the foreskin with my tongue and lips, while the mutt comparatively crudely, licked the ballsac, and the hound and I amicably shared the spunky climax; or the buck naked Adonis, still at Ryhope (and no use finding it on the map and booking a ticket, it's all long long gone, sanitised, destroyed) standing in a spring sea of young saplings, with just a supermarket carrier bag over his head; what the hell to do? It felt like looking at Fort Knox - how to get in, he provided no clue. But desire came to the rescue and as from above, the instinct said beat, so I whacked his bum, and his response was a positive growl. I still remember the sense of relief along with regret that I didn't follow him home and make him mine.
All great stuff to sear the memory cells forever. Possibly. La boue has always been my home though so perhaps some other way later. Though when I looked at the chaps constituting the leather gang at one end of the Earls Court Coleherne with their buckles and helmets and chains, one would have needed a heart of stone not to giggle (carefully behind one's hand for they were volatile, any boy could see that) I even saw my school form master there all geared up and was never sure if he saw me. Ah, those were the days, ladies.
But picking up my love of bum beating now seems a small part of the armamentarium one has to build against the hungry demands of the boys and girls (boys and boys in my case) who come to challenge their top for his job.
We're now in a market economy where tops vie with tops, subs with subs; gaydar's gone to the moneymakers; alt.com ditto; how does BDSM survive. (I'm stingy, though more generous as death approaches but I refuse to shell out for printer ink or for membership (and it ain't cheap) to these once friendly sites.) It survives, I surmise, and thrives on basic needs all tied up in the early years and infancy where dad and mum are the players who will be responsible for much of the baby's interchange habits with the outside world for the rest of their lives, not forgetting the vicissitudes of youth for the curious boy who may stumble into the vicar's lair or the priest's hidey hole or find his cousin taking a polaroid of him sniffing a woman's panties (and the payment in that case was considerable and homosexual) and of course converted that boy to a sniffer of panties belonging to the other sex.
It might all be so intimidating, but with tawse in hand ready to beat the modern world back into its own intrusive face, dad picks himself up and begins to search, to perv, to find.
It's all reassuringly familiar, nothing new, just new bottles for the old wine as old as time, new silicones and plastics, new kink manufacturers all over the globe now make adorable restraints and mazes for baby to pit herself against. There's erotic hypno, too, and this dad believes it has great potential, whispering into the baby ear the reassurances dad wants to give to enable the full flowering of the perverted baby mind. (I spent 55-65 a bit depressed and off scene, though also acquiring a tiny sicilian apartment for retiring, til Bunter and the gammons put paid to that - but if you are cute and like to expose yourself for a natural tan and can get away with skimpy speedos,(D)(you're on your own now boy) the kind that force the member up and the bush out - the kind of thing I saw on a Dymchurch beach when I was about 8 and when, unconsciously, I began to realize something wasn't quite right) sulla spiaggia and rara skirt a casa, let me know and I'll fetch my diary. So much has changed so much stays the same, but the human heart and brain and its lusts and loves remain the same. Before I leave I feel I must say a word in defence of diapers, though they are a mixed blessing.
(This is a late insert and sticks out like a sore whatnot; but i've learned from talking to many that we all have a primal image or scene; for me it's those blue satin speedos which are failing spectacularly failing to cover the hirsute manminge beneath. I am interested in yours; so let me know...)
I don't know why it was years back while discussing white underpants with a toothsome knabe (met on informedconsent.co.uk, remember that anyone?, sheer heaven) that I ventured to say I'd love to nappy him. Rather than a sharp intake of horrified breath, he told me (in confidence for no one must know - that hasn't changed) he was an Adult Baby. My jaw dropped. It was a moment of revelation akin to looking up 'homo' in the dictionary, a word flung about by the more extravert boys at school as they looked one another up and down in the shower and all accused the other of being a homo, and laughed. Homo wasn't there under H, but homosexual was, and o my dear goodness, there were others like me!! Well, infantilization is, I find, a very minority and niche interest. But why?
After all, sex makes babies of us all, the wailing and weeping, the guzzling to satiation, the damn mess. Why shouldn't baby uniform be more mainstream? Well babiness is mainstream, of course, but verbally, each of us easily falling to call the beloved 'baby' or 'darling' and so on and so forth! But admittedly once you've done all the shopping, and that needs research I can assure you, you get the object before you, sucking on his pacifier, plastic or human, and what to do?
He looks so peaceful, gurgles with such trust. It's a good question, though I must say I was excited to meet just yesterday in this site's excellent chat rooms (and when I see people who won't shell out for basic membership and thus gain access I feel great pity for them, this is a site far bigger than its written profiles due to the collection of gorgeous global perverts meetable in chat) a lad who takes chastity and his diapers very seriously, and I know I shall learn much from him, so watch this space. Still learning in my 70s, I didn't expect this!
On the same day, though, I met a man remembering himself as a hapless student pounced on by a thug who knew what he wanted, who was nappied but in reverse, the safety pin fastening the opening at the back not front, so friend thug daddy could access the hole, seed it, and pin it up again. And there were many messy added details, the sort of thing infantilization gets a bad name for. Rightly? Well that student adored his gaoler, and feared him. And is haunted, as so many of us are, by these early experiences. Ah, life, it just ain't what they told us it would be.
This was all years ago in a land far far away (and Brexitania is foreign to me) but may help you to get a fix on me. I mistrust what people write about themselves in the profile space, and I have exposed myself here, and at my age there seems little option but so to do. And there is no one best way. So which way now? well, any old way that feels right in the company of another who leads or follows, and always with the surprised look on my fizz that as one grows older the beauty of the young who seek companionship grows ever more touching and o so very very sexy. Now with flagging dick but strengthening verbal self confidence this can be the best of all possible worlds, dad should enter a session with just his mouth tongue and hands and fingers all fully functioning, a cane, a plug and cage; a pair of undies, a terry diaper and a stick of lipstick. What else? Just the cigar!
And if you've come this far with me, and there may not be any, please write and claim your free prize, a session folded over my favourite stool, your knickers down, and ready to experience, real classic bum experience in the company of this old bum. And remember, spare the rod and spoil the child! Pip pip!
