At first, there is an image of daisies in a lake. I would have tried to wake myself had I known what this portent would be.

I am on stage, and I think how lucky I am. I am dancing effortlessly to a slow pavanne by Ravel, and it is so beautiful. I can raise my leg all the way up, and down again, as graceful as a swan. I am in a white tu-tu. It is the perfect costume for me. It is very lacy and delicate, and my flat chest seems very feminine, and my waist is slightly pinched, and from my waist, out spills all this sweet, sweet gossamer fabric.

The frills stick straight out, thick and bunchy, and expose my white lace panties and my white lace pantyhose. I am wearing pretty little silvery slippers. Could I be more feminine? Could I show the audience more of my girlishness? My tu-tu is a permanently raised skirt. The audience can gaze at my panties all they want! They can't detect even the slightest bulge in these wonderful lace panties!

Looking at myself from the stage, I wonder why there is no orchestra. There there aren't any refined ladies and gentlemen in rows, and rows, and rows of seats. No, I am dancing some kind of audition in a basement. Is it an audition? Am I being held captive and made to dance?

A thuggish male walks on the stage, which is just a wooden floor, and shoves me over. The music plays rock. The awkward tu-tu, so stiff and thick, is my undoing. Like a child's toy, I roll in awkward crescents, unable to stand. He pulls down the back of my panties while I am helplessly bent over.

I see myself from the back, in this humiliating pose. The tu-tu frames my naked cheeks. To my utter mortification, it's also possible to see my boy parts hanging down.

He does me. He does me hard, angrily, brutally. I cry out in little gasps, to signal that he is too big for me, and doing me too hard. This probably only excites him. I see myself now trying to stand again, stuff trickling from between my cheeks.

I am crawling slowly on my knees and hands, but now another man strides forward, and like the first, he wears grubby clothes and is a thug, and he has his thing sticking out of his pants. He lands on me, straddles me, and humiliates me with his long, slow, teasing movements in and out. He takes his time lording over me, then fills me.

Now my crawling is even slower. I feel like a turtle. I wish that my bottom wasn't sticking up so invitingly, and that the dark crack wasn't now slightly open from all the abuse, ringed with shimmering white, and inviting more men.

A man has grabbed me by both thighs. I am practically upside down. He has me like a wheel barrow, and he has entered me. My face is pushed into the hard wood floor. My panties are off entirely. My boy parts dangle lewdly downward as he does me.

I wonder if there really is an audience for all of this, and somehow I have a view looking down, and I see a giant audience of thousands and thousands. Are they watching what's happening to me? Or am I looking at some audience at a real classical concert somewhere?
I don't know how many men have done it to me by the time I manage to crawl off the stage. The last few yards to the wings are very difficult. I almost slide, I dive for the darkness of the wings, and it seems that the wings trail off into a lake.

I slide into the lake.

I see myself under the water, looking up, my features staring, distorted by the few inches of water above them. Have I drowned?