Whipped for Charity: Dahlia's Perspective

[AgonyInPink]

I've become fascinated by this, it was an actual charity event in 2010 for the Make-a-Wish Foundation, people were whipped for charity, as an observer you paid your money and chose who you wanted to be whipped - and whipped they were, it wasn't some five dollar flogger from eBay!

I've made a video of it here:

I've also written three stories from the perspective of Dahlia (lady volunteer being whipped), the Whip Master and an enthusiastic crowd member! Now, naturally, I have applied poetic license for the enjoyment of the reader (you!).

A Day for Charity: Dahlia's Perspective

The day had finally arrived. I woke up with a strange blend of excitement and anxiety, knowing what was ahead. I slipped into my denim shorts and navy top, tying my hair back. It wasn’t a glamorous look, but today wasn’t about appearances. Today was about pushing boundaries—and raising money for Make-A-Wish.

I arrived at the Pennsylvania Retro Fayre early, the sun just starting to rise above the trees. The event had been talked about for weeks, and I could already feel the buzz in the air.

The post stood tall in the center of the event space, and it seemed intimidating. I kept reminding myself why I was doing this. It wasn’t about proving anything; it was about the kids who needed a little magic in their lives.

By the time the Geeky Kink Event team had everything set up, the crowd had already started gathering. I stood next to the post, breathing deeply, watching the people around me.

I lifted my arms, allowing the team to fasten my wrists to the post. The restraints were tight, but not painfully so. The crowd around me was growing, their murmurs blending into a low hum of excitement. I could feel their eyes on me, watching, waiting. I tried to stay focused.

“Every dollar counts,” the announcer’s voice echoed, “One dollar, one lash.”

The first donation came in, a $10 bill. The whip cracked for the first time across my legs, and I felt the sting. I tensed but didn’t flinch. The crowd cheered, and the energy began to build.

More donations followed. $5, $10, then a $50. I could feel the intensity growing, each lash adding to the heat on my skin. My legs and back were starting to burn, but I kept myself steady.

Then the bigger donations started coming in, and the whip cracked more frequently. Sweat began to trickle down my neck and back, soaking into my shirt. With each lash, I could feel the fabric clinging to my skin, making it harder to breathe and focus. The more I moved, the more my top stuck to me, and it became a distraction.

I glanced at the crowd, noticing the way they were watching me, fully invested in every lash. I could feel the tension in my muscles, not just from the pain but from the wet fabric clinging to my body. It was time to make a decision.

Between donations, I called out to the team and asked them to untie one wrist, just for a moment. The crowd watched, murmuring curiously as I reached down and pulled off my navy top. I wasn’t wearing a bra, but that didn’t matter now. I was already exposed in so many ways. It wasn’t about modesty—it was about making it easier to handle what was still to come.

The cool air hit my skin, and I felt a sense of relief. My body was bare now, more vulnerable, but also more free. I raised my arms again, and they tied my wrists back to the post. I could feel the crowd’s eyes on me, a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and respect.

The lashes resumed. This time, I felt each one more keenly, the whip cracking against my now bare back, sending sharp stings through my body. The crowd roared with every lash, their excitement growing with each dollar added. Without the wet fabric clinging to me, I could focus more on the rhythm, on the sound of the whip, on keeping myself steady.

The $50 donations were coming in more frequently now, and each time, the whipmaster delivered another fifty lashes. My back and legs were on fire, but the adrenaline from the crowd helped keep me going. I could feel the marks building up on my skin, but without the weight of my wet top, I felt lighter, more able to endure.

I had lost count of how many lashes I had taken by the time we reached $300, then $400. My body was shaking now, but I refused to show it. I wasn’t going to stop. Not until every last dollar was counted.

The crowd was getting louder, more intense, as they realized how far I had gone. The pain was constant, each lash sharp and biting, but I kept standing tall. I could feel the sweat dripping down my bare back, my muscles tensing with every strike. But I knew I could take it.

By the time we passed $500, my body was trembling from the sheer intensity of it all. Over 500 lashes. My legs were jelly, and the marks on my skin were burning, but I had made it. We had made it.

As they unfastened my wrists, I let my arms fall to my sides. The crowd was still cheering, their voices blending into a roar of admiration and excitement. I turned to face them, the cool air hitting my bare skin again, and I smiled—a tired, proud smile. I had pushed through.

I had endured, not for the spectacle, but for the kids who needed it most. $500 wasn’t just a number—it was a wish, a dream come true for someone who needed it. And that, more than anything else, made every lash, every drop of sweat, and every moment of vulnerability worth it.

 

[AgonyInPink]

A Day for Charity: The Whipmaster's Perspective


The day started like any other event I’d worked, but as I stood next to the post, whip in hand, I knew this one would be different. The buzz around the Pennsylvania Retro Fayre was building fast, and I could feel the anticipation in the crowd as they gathered to see what was about to unfold. Today was about raising money for Make-A-Wish, but it was also about endurance, both for Dahlia and for me.

Dahlia and I had gone over the plan earlier. She was tough, determined, and focused, but we both knew this would be a serious challenge. She had done this before, but today, the goal was to push further—to raise more money, to take more lashes. The crowd’s energy was palpable as they gathered around us.

I gripped the handle of the bullwhip, feeling its familiar weight. I had worked with it countless times, but today, every strike would be different. I had to balance the crowd’s hunger for spectacle with the responsibility of keeping Dahlia safe. Each lash needed to be measured, calculated, and I couldn’t afford to lose control.

The donations started rolling in. The first few were smaller—$5, $10—and the whip cracked lightly against her legs. Dahlia flinched at first, but she kept her composure. I watched her carefully, reading her body language as we moved forward. Every crack of the whip brought more cheers from the crowd, and the energy began to build.

It wasn’t long before the larger donations started coming. Someone stepped up with $50, and I knew what that meant—50 lashes. I glanced at Dahlia, and she gave a small nod. She was ready, or as ready as anyone could be. The whip lashed across her back and legs, harder this time, the strikes coming in quick succession. The crowd responded with louder cheers, egging me on, urging me to keep going.

With every lash, I could see the marks forming on her skin. Sweat began to glisten on her neck and arms, and it wasn’t long before her navy top was soaked through. She was pushing through the pain, but I could see the discomfort building. The sweat was making her shirt cling to her body, making it harder for her to focus. I noticed the way her muscles tensed, the way her breathing became more labored as the fabric stuck to her skin.

And then, in the middle of the event, Dahlia did something I hadn’t anticipated. Between rounds of lashes, she called out for the team to untie one of her wrists. I paused, watching as she reached down and pulled off her navy top. The crowd hushed for a moment, not sure what to expect. I’ll admit, even I was surprised, but I quickly understood what she was doing. The wet fabric had become more of a hindrance, and she needed to be free of it.

She wasn’t wearing a bra, and for a moment, the vulnerability of the situation hit me. She was standing there, exposed, in front of a growing crowd. But she didn’t flinch. There was no hesitation in her movements. Dahlia wasn’t thinking about modesty—she was focused on enduring the lashes and pushing through to the end.

The crowd’s murmurs turned back into cheers as she raised her arms again, allowing her wrists to be tied back to the post. The stakes felt higher now. I knew I had to keep my focus sharper than ever. Dahlia had just made herself more vulnerable, and with her bare skin now exposed, I had to be even more precise with my strikes.

The whip cracked through the air once more, this time striking her bare back. The sound was sharper, louder, and I could see Dahlia’s muscles tense with each hit. The sweat that had soaked her shirt was now dripping down her skin, glistening in the afternoon sun. The crowd’s energy surged with every lash, their cheers growing louder as the donations kept coming.

I had delivered well over 100 lashes by now, and Dahlia was still standing tall. Her legs were trembling, her back marked with red welts, but she hadn’t given any signal to stop. I kept my movements precise, striking different areas of her back and legs to avoid too much damage in any one spot. But without the protection of her top, each lash was more intense, more biting.

The crowd was roaring now. Another $50. Another fifty lashes.

The whip cracked again and again, and I could see Dahlia gritting her teeth, fighting through the pain. The crowd was completely invested in the spectacle now, and I felt the weight of their eyes on me as I delivered lash after lash. But my focus was on Dahlia—on making sure she could handle it, on making sure I didn’t push too far. Each lash was carefully measured, but with her bare skin exposed, I knew there was only so much more she could take.

We passed $300, then $400. My arm was beginning to tire, but I pushed through. Dahlia had taken over 400 lashes by now, her body glistening with sweat, her skin a canvas of red welts. The crowd cheered louder with each donation, and I could feel the intensity building. This wasn’t just about the money anymore—it was about pushing limits, testing endurance.

Finally, we hit $500. Over 500 lashes.

Dahlia was shaking now, her body trembling under the weight of the strikes. I could see her legs starting to give, but she never asked for a break, never asked me to stop. The final lashes cracked through the air, landing softly but still leaving their mark. The crowd erupted in applause as the last lash landed, and I lowered the whip, feeling the tension in my own body begin to ease.

As they untied Dahlia’s wrists, I stepped back, coiling the whip in my hands. My job was done, but the intensity of the event still lingered in the air. I watched as Dahlia turned to face the crowd, her bare skin marked with the evidence of what she had endured. She was drenched in sweat, exhausted, but there was a look of triumph in her eyes.

We had done it. We had pushed through, and together, we had raised over $500 for Make-A-Wish. I felt a strange sense of pride, knowing that I had been part of something bigger than myself. It wasn’t just about the spectacle or the lashes—it was about pushing boundaries, testing limits, and doing it all for a cause that mattered.

As the crowd dispersed, I caught Dahlia’s eye one last time. We didn’t need words. We had both endured that day, in different ways, but we had done it together. And that, more than anything, was what made the experience unforgettable.

 

[AgonyInPink]

A Day for Charity: A Crowd Member’s Perspective

I wasn’t expecting to get so involved when I showed up at the Pennsylvania Retro Fayre that day. The Retro Fayre had always been a fun place to hang out, check out old games, and maybe buy a few things, but today felt different. Word had been going around about a charity event—a pretty unconventional one at that—raising money for Make-A-Wish.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I found myself drifting over to the crowd that had gathered around a small stage. At the center of it all was a woman tied to a wooden post—Dahlia, I think they said her name was. Her wrists were fastened above her head, and next to her stood a man holding a bullwhip. The air was charged, and the crowd around me seemed as captivated as I was.

The event had a simple but intense premise: for every dollar donated, Dahlia would receive a lash from the whip. I wasn’t sure what to expect at first, but after watching the first few donations roll in, I found myself completely caught up in the moment. The sharp crack of the whip, the way Dahlia stood there, enduring it all without breaking—it was something else. She was taking it for the cause, and the crowd was responding.

I watched as people stepped forward with donations—$5, $10, even $50—and with each dollar came another lash. I could see the marks forming on her legs and back, but she kept standing, kept pushing through. It wasn’t long before I found myself wanting to get involved. Without really thinking it through, I stepped forward, pulling out a $50 bill. Fifty lashes for $50.

The crowd buzzed as I handed over the money, and the whipmaster gave a nod before delivering the first strike. The sound of the whip cracking against Dahlia’s skin echoed through the air, sharp and intense. The crowd cheered with each lash, and I felt myself caught up in it, cheering too. I could see the tension in Dahlia’s muscles as she absorbed each hit, but she never wavered. Fifty lashes later, I stepped back, my heart pounding with a strange mix of excitement and admiration.

But then, something changed.

After my donation, I watched as the whipmaster paused, and Dahlia asked for a quick break. I wasn’t sure what was going on at first, but then I saw her gesture toward her top. It had been clinging to her body, drenched with sweat from the intensity of the lashes.

And then, to my surprise, she reached up and pulled it off.

The crowd fell silent for a moment. Dahlia stood there, topless, her bare chest exposed to everyone. For a second, I wasn’t sure how to react. It wasn’t what I had expected, and I could feel the tension in the crowd shift. People were watching her differently now, myself included. Her vulnerability, both physically and mentally, suddenly became even more real.

But there was something else. She wasn’t doing it for attention or shock value—it was clear she needed the freedom to move, to focus, to endure the lashes without the discomfort of her wet top sticking to her skin. Still, standing there with nothing covering her chest, she was more exposed than ever.

The crowd didn’t hesitate for long. Their murmurs quickly turned back into cheers, and the whipmaster raised the whip again. As the next round of lashes began, I could see the marks forming on her bare back, the sweat glistening on her skin. Each lash was sharper now, each strike landing on bare flesh. The crowd responded with even more intensity, but I couldn’t shake the fact that this had become something different.

Dahlia had made herself vulnerable, and yet, she was still pushing through. The strength it took to do that was something I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about endurance anymore—it was about something deeper. She was baring herself, literally and figuratively, in front of all of us.

My pulse quickened as I watched the whip lash across her bare skin again and again. Her body trembled with the impact, but she didn’t ask for it to stop. The crowd cheered louder with each crack of the whip, and I found myself caught up in the frenzy again. But this time, it felt different. I wasn’t just cheering for the spectacle—I was watching someone push their limits in a way that felt raw, real.

Before I even realized it, I was stepping forward again, reaching into my pocket for another $50. I handed it over to the announcer, and the crowd buzzed as my second donation was announced. Fifty more lashes.

I wasn’t sure why I was doing it. Maybe it was the rush of the crowd, the feeling of being part of something intense, or maybe it was seeing Dahlia’s sheer determination. But whatever it was, I wanted to push it further. Fifty more lashes.

The whipmaster glanced at me, and I gave a quick nod. He raised the whip once more, and the crowd fell silent as the first strike landed on Dahlia’s bare back. The sound was louder this time, sharper, more intense. I could see her body react with each lash, her muscles tensing, her legs trembling slightly. But she kept standing, refusing to break.

The crowd erupted into cheers again, and I was right there with them. The intensity of the moment had reached its peak, and I couldn’t look away. Fifty more lashes. Each one more intense than the last. Dahlia was drenched in sweat, her skin marked with red welts, but she was still standing.

By the time the last lash landed, I felt a strange mix of exhilaration and respect. I had donated $100, and Dahlia had taken over 500 lashes in total. She had pushed through in ways I hadn’t imagined possible, especially after exposing herself like that. The vulnerability, the strength—it was all part of something much bigger than I had anticipated when I first stepped into the crowd.

As they untied her wrists, the crowd erupted in applause, and I joined in. Dahlia turned to face us, her bare skin marked by the whip, but there was a look of quiet triumph in her eyes. She had done it. We had all been part of it, in a way, but she had been the one to endure it all.

I walked away from the stage, still buzzing with the energy of the moment, knowing that I had been part of something raw, intense, and real. It wasn’t just about the money raised or the spectacle of it all—it was about watching someone push through pain, vulnerability, and their own limits for a cause that mattered.

 

[mark sessnatz]

Whoops! Looks like I drained all my savings!