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April O'Neil - Evidence Gathering	By : Nickamano Category: +S through Z > Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Views: 309 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: April O'Neil, the Foot Clan and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and any related materials are not owned by me. This was created for entertainment purposes only, and I am not profiting financially from the creation of this story.

Chapter List
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April took the heat-sealed clear plastic packet with a polite smile, strictly a polite smile. Hopefully it would have come across as gratitude though that was far from April’s truth. The dandelion-yellow cotton/spandex-weave garment inside the plastic film was 'her' – to the rest of them it represented who she was as a professional reporter. Which April felt was at the very least, unfortunate for her reputation. However, she had belatedly and sadly realised that she had started to accept the ‘truth’ that the ‘April O'Neil’ who was her established on-screen persona was a far cry from the professional investigative reporter she had always pictured herself as. The professional person she had always wanted to be from the day she had applied to journalism college. Before even. From the days working on her High School newspaper.
Her boss, editor-in-chief Burne Thompson, sat there at his small, piled-up desk, revolved his old plush chair around to face her. There was a playful glint in his eye and he couldn't hold back the smile playing across his pudgy round face.
“C'mon then April, put it on. Need to make sure it fits, don't we?”
“What, here?”
“Of course, here.” He said, rolling his eyes. “It's not like there's room anywhere else is there?”
April thought about half a dozen places she could get changed in privacy but she also knew that Burne had her career, such as it was, in the palm of his hand. So, she said nothing.
“Hurry up, we haven't got all day. You’ll have to be heading out to Connecticut soon.”
“Wait, Connecticut?”
“You know, Freddie's Supreme Bar and Grill or whatever it’s called. You’re heading off within the hour, aren’t you? You and Collins.”
“Oh, yeah. That.” She replied, trying to conceal her distaste.
Fighting the urge to frown, April used a well-manicured fingernail to slit open the seam of the plastic bag, then pulled out the eye-wateringly garish jumpsuit within. These ‘uniforms’ always came in pairs, and she got replacements every four or five months. The justification was that she needed to look fresh and pristine on camera in her, at least locally, famous outfit. Each time she pulled on one of these jumpsuits it seemed to be smaller, fitting her like a second-skin while simultaneously lifting and compressing in, others might say, ‘all the right places’ but April frankly didn't need it. She still was as firm, ripe and perky as she had been at eighteen, still taut and smooth all over and quietly proud of the fact.
She bit back a sigh as she allowed the garment to unfold. It was certainly a pleasant fabric against her skin, soft and smooth with the feel of a natural fibre. It was also thin. T-shirt thin. Style-wise it was all zips and flapped pockets. Though nothing was positioned to conceal or divert attention from her well displayed curvaceous assets. The designer must have been a colossal pervert.
The waistline was cinched in with bands of elastic around the rear, the pockets across the bust and thighs were large and deep but not designed to carry anything, they were designed to bring shape and prominence to what lay beneath. In fact, the breast pockets weren’t even real, the designer having forsaken the usefulness of real pockets for a single unobstructive layer of stretchy fabric across the front of her prodigious bust.
The zip from throat to crotch gleamed polished gold, but like all the outfits that came before, the zip terminated at the bust line. And between that point and its collar, the garment was designed like a push up bra, uplifting and pressuring to create the most on display cleavage and shudder as possible, while ensuring the sun-bright yellow fabric did not conceal a thing. The zip tabs, both the main zip and on the pockets were large tear drops designed for a quick grab, easy opening.
April dragged the clingy burgundy sweater over her head. Turning she folded it over the back of the small chair that faced the Editor's tiny, flotsam-covered desk. The robust though pretty lace-adorned bra beneath it was a royal shade of purple. She felt it went well with her lightly tanned skin tone and looking in the mirror this morning - adding the matching G-string - made her feel attractive, sexy and confident. No longer, now she felt like a store mannequin, showing off for a potential purchaser’s gratification. She worked her way down the buttons of her skintight jeans.

She had to sit on the seat so she could drag her favourite old leather cowboy boots off her feet. And she was acutely aware of how much pleasure she was affording her pervert of a boss, as her physical efforts were making her big, bra-encased breasts quiver all over the place. To distract herself she cast an appraising gaze across some of the trash that constantly flooded Thompson’s desk. One thing caught her eye, not suspicious, just attention grabbing for its familiarity - though from where eluded her. It was a letter, unfolded though creased into equal thirds. All she could see was the letterhead across the uppermost third, upside down yet clear. That was the source of the familiarity; a company logo, familiar but only vaguely. It formed an intricately inked Samurai sword that underlined the Romanised type of the company name - Kirehashi International. A Japanese media conglomerate. Interesting.
“So, April. How’re you planning to cover these inter-state Wet Tee Championships? You got an angle to pursue? Or, you just going to play it by ear?”
Dragging her attention to the task at hand, April hauled the boots off and then stood to peel the second-skin royal blue denim pants from her long, smooth legs. Knowing what Thompson would expect, she anticipated his demand and turned her back to him, as she dragged the final garment off, bending from the waist and showing off the cobweb-thread of her thong between her perky, tanned buttocks.
“I hadn't thought much about it.” She admitted. “These types of stories are all about the visuals, the presentation. I'm sure an angle will present itself while I'm there.”
Standing there in her underwear she picked up the jumpsuit and gave it a snap to work out a few of the creases, then drew the front zipper all the way down. Whipping it around she grabbed the garment around the waist, allowing the torso to fold down and then bent forward to step into its legs, her feet snared by the elastic loops at the ankles. She turned again to face her Editor-in-Chief, showing off her huge breasts as she bent forward ninety degrees, pulling the tight spandex up her shapely calves and thighs.
“I have no doubt.” Thompson said, an additional little rumble in his throat. “You do great work on these fun little personal-interest stories. Our great viewing public just eat-em-up!”
She straightened and then, with deliberately slowness, almost as a reverse striptease, drew the zipper tab upward from the lowest point of her crotch all the way up to the under curves of her jutting breasts. She had to cup and lift each breast in their bra cups to position them correctly inside the jumpsuit. She shouldn't wear a bra under the jumpsuit as it was designed and equipped for just that supportive and uplifting purpose. But she wasn't about to get her tits out for her boss if she could get away with it.
“Terrific, that’s a perfect fit again!” Thompson said, grinning mischievously.
To April it felt too tight, too constricting and too overtly sexualising. She held her tongue and gave him a polite nod.
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April O'Neil - Evidence Gathering