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.