Beneath the Surface

Isabelle doesn't realize yet what she's becoming. She looks at herself in the mirror every morning and sees the same young woman she's always been, with deep brown eyes and long, lustrous black hair that grabs back at her brush and accentuates the paleness of her ivory skin. She rubs sleep out of her eyes with the same gesture, takes her usual hasty shower and towels herself dry before getting dressed, and believes that nothing about her has changed. She's Isabelle. She's always been Isabelle. She doesn't know any other way to be.

It doesn't occur to her to wonder about an odd new clothing purchase here and there, a pair of black panties that she pulls on before slipping into her demure white dress. The fabric feels better against her skin than her old cotton underwear, and she enjoys the momentary glimpse of the cream-colored skirt dropping down over the dark silk and teasing a secret just for her. It doesn't register as a change. Isabelle bought them on a whim, and whims come and go. And when they pass, they leave behind the same old Isabelle who moved to Los Angeles from Mount Pleasant, Utah to seek her fortune in Hollywood. Fame hasn't changed her, even if that fame currently takes the form of sixth-billed cast member in a science fiction web series that runs on a streaming service that can barely afford to pay its hosting bills.

Isabelle doesn't notice that she takes a little extra time to put on her underwear every morning. Who would? Nobody times themselves getting dressed. If Isabelle happens to close her eyes, the better to enjoy the sensation of cool silk whispering up the inside of her thighs before she tugs the panties up and allows them to hug her hips and caress her plump labia, well... she's a normal young woman with a healthy sex drive, out from under the thumb of the Latter-Day Saints for the first time and on her own. She's bound to find a few pleasures here and there that she didn't have the chance to appreciate, like spicy street tacos and window shopping on Rodeo Drive and giving her pussy a gentle pat before she reaches for her dress. It doesn't mean anything is happening to her.

Isabelle still dresses modestly, after all. She even carries a parasol to protect her stubbornly untannable skin, an affectation that makes her look more like a Southern belle than an import from one of the few states able to compete with California for sunshine. It's not like she's flashing those black silk panties to the men who give her appreciative stares when she walks down the street or anything, even if she has found herself slowing down a bit when she spots someone watching her, and maybe putting a little extra sway into her hips while she walks to accentuate the impressive curves of her buttocks. That's not teasing. That's not even flirting. That's... that's advertising, really. She's a beautiful young woman and beauty sells in LA. She'd be a fool not to give herself chances to be discovered.

And maybe yes, the motion of her legs as she takes long, determined strides down the sidewalk to get to the studio from the remote location where she parked her car does make the silken fabric slide ever so slightly from side to side against her bare cunt, and maybe Isabelle does enjoy that just a tiny bit. But it doesn't mean anything to her. Neither does the perfectly shaven skin of her pubic mound. Isabelle didn't think twice about it when she started getting waxing appointments every two weeks; she has a regular beauty regimen, yes, but that's normal for a woman who acts professionally and supplements her income with modeling gigs. Keeping herself smooth down there helps her look better in a bikini--and it's just a bikini, it's not like she works nude or anything--and it makes it so much easier to deal with her pubic hair. She's already put it out of her mind as readily as she does the rest of her skin care routine. That particular area just gets a little extra lotion in the evenings, that's all. A little bit more attention. It doesn't mean anything.

She still arrives at the studio every inch the professional, after all. If she's maybe a little bit out of breath, if she takes a few moments to collect herself before she goes in, well... it is a very long walk, after all. Even for a young actress in great shape. Isabelle just wants to lean up against the wall next to the big iron gates and soak up the warmth of the sun-soaked stone, that's all. It feels good to enjoy that comfortable heat from under the shade of her parasol. She doesn't realize that she's squeezing her legs together as tightly as she can, squirming her hips almost subliminally from side to side so her labia can rub her clit in tiny, sensual motions. Even if she did notice, Isabelle would no doubt insist to herself that she merely had a healthy libido. And nobody can tell what she's doing anyway.

And it's not like she never masturbated back home. Perhaps not in public, perhaps not with her ample breasts pushing out just a little so that her nipples can rub against the fabric of her dress from the snug confines of her new underwire bra that she bought on impulse, but Isabelle had a sex life in Utah. It's not that big of a stretch to imagine that with a little more freedom, in a city that appreciates feminine beauty and doesn't scold women quite so much for being sexual beings, she might enjoy her body a tiny bit more. That's what Isabelle tells herself, on those rare occasions when she catches her hips squirming just a little more openly. She's not doing anything unusual at all.

It's easier to tell herself that when she spots one of her co-stars approaching. Sandra struts down the sidewalk with the same walk Isabelle has, only more pronounced. She flirts even more obviously with every gender, responding to the glances of passers by with a little extra bounce to her step that makes her tits jiggle and her ass shake. She wears an outfit that shows off more skin than Isabelle's parasol could protect, with a plunging neckline and bare shoulders and a skirt slit up the sides to reveal her long, smooth legs right up to mid-thigh. Isabelle can always tell herself that she's more demure, more modest than Sandra. She doesn't realize that Sandra's changing too.

The two women smile at each other, embracing with a friendly kiss before linking arms to enter the studio together. Isabelle recognizes that the friendly kiss is a lot friendlier than the ones she shared with her friends back home, but she's too busy being overjoyed at the convivial atmosphere on set to think about just how good Sandra's lips feel against hers. She'd heard from so many people back in Utah that Hollywood types were all catty, backstabbing phonies who would make her feel about three inches tall and leave her crying into her pillow every night at her shabby treatment, but all the women on this show support each other. It gives Isabelle a warm, happy glow that goes straight down between her thighs to her still-throbbing clit, but she convinces herself that it's just the excitement of acting.

Both women sign in at the desk, and Isabelle easily nods along with Sandra's excited burble about her latest lipstick purchase (bubblegum pink) and her new six-inch heels and the jade green satin panties she found at a little boutique on Wilshire Boulevard. A few months ago, she might have stuck her nose in the air and called Sandra shallow or worse yet stupid for caring so much about fashion, but now she understands. Clothing and makeup are the tools of her trade, after all, every bit as important to her as an instrument to a musician or a scalpel to a surgeon. She can't afford to act stuck up, not when looking her best could mean getting a six-figure paycheck. And if Sandra sounds a little bit ditzy, if she sprinkles her speech with 'um's and 'like's and 'OMG's, who cares? She still knows what she's talking about.

Isabelle has caught a few of her co-stars' speech habits rubbing off on her now and again, but she's paid it no mind. Who doesn't start talking like their friends after spending all day every day with them, month in and month out? Isabelle works with Sandra and the other women on the show, she hangs out with them at lunchtime and goes drinking with them after the grueling shooting day is over, and when it comes time for relaxing on the weekend, it's always Sandra or Melanie or Leesa or Bethany or Caryn who comes up with an invitation to some event or other. Naturally they all start to sound a little bit alike. Isabelle doesn't think that's even the slightest bit strange, no matter what her friends back home might say.

And yes, they're all comfortable changing in front of one another. They're all actresses, all women, and nobody has anything to be ashamed of or jealous over. Sandra has gorgeous breasts, and the underwire bra she wore to the set today perfectly frames her stiff brown nipples. Leesa's taut mahogany stomach is the result of constant hard work and exercise, and she deserves to be complimented for it. Melanie decided not to wear panties today, but is Isabelle going to shame her for making choices about what she does with her body? Of course she isn't. That's not the person she wants to be. That's not the person she's ever been, even back home where women were encouraged to police each other's sexuality.

Oh, her friends would no doubt read something perverse and sexual into their casual touches and caresses in the dressing room. They'd no doubt insist that when Sandra cups Isabelle's breast in her hands and says, "OMG, that new bra makes you look, like, so fucking hot!", it means something untoward. But Isabelle knows that they're all just complimenting each other. She's always been appreciative of beauty. That didn't change just because she got to Hollywood and found a whole city full of sexy bodies to admire. Isabelle is the same woman she's always been, and she knows it.

She still remembers to dress for the day's filming, after all. She doesn't walk out of the dressing room wearing nothing but a pair of black panties and a matching bra that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, as much as it drifts through her daydreaming head just how exciting it would be to see the producers' reactions if all six of their show's stars paraded in front of them in the most exhibitionistic lingerie money could buy. She remembers to be professional, no matter how often she sees the tent in her director's trousers and imagines getting down on her knees and sucking his hard cock while the DP films every moment in the clearest, crispest focus possible.

Because Isabelle hasn't changed. She still sees the same woman she always sees behind the slutty makeup, underneath the slinky black dress that barely goes down to her thighs. A little more glamorous, perhaps, in her blue eyeshadow and her thick mascara and her red lipstick that makes her lips look so plump and soft and ready to kiss. But that's all just the surface, she tells herself. Deep down, she's the same down-to-earth, ambitious woman who left Utah and went out to conquer Hollywood.

And she really believes it, right up until she walks onto what she thinks is merely a set for a science fiction show about six women who fall victim to a sinister brainwashing conspiracy. Right up until she takes her place at one of the 'brainwashing booths' she honestly regards as cunningly-constructed props and locks the helmet onto her head. Right up until she notices, far too late every single time, that there aren't any cameras filming this particular scene. That's when Isabelle realizes that she's only looking at the surface to the woman she sees in the mirror... and deep beneath it, she's becoming more and more of a perfectly programmed slut each day. But by then, she's already lost in pleasure and plummeting helplessly into the machine's unbreakable control.

THE END