Ms. Americana goes to the First Thanksgiving

By Violator

Author’s Note:  So a few years back I submitted a silly little Thanksgiving-themed story.  In the preface to that one I joked that I might later do one where Ms. Americana gets sent back to the First Thanksgiving and gets nailed by Squanto.  Well, uh… guess what?  Hit END for a short summary.  Send any comments or feedback to violatoremail@protonmail.com.

“Flag Girl has a school project due, Dr. Whirter,” Miss Americana said.  “She’s flunking, so we need a guaranteed A.  So I want you to send me back in time.  If we can learn the true history of the First Thanksgiving, then with the report I’ll help her write there’s no way she can fail.”

Professor Whirter shook his head.  “Miss Americana!” he gasped.  “The time machine is not a toy!  You cannot use it for such purposes!”

The mighty superheroine stood before him in his lab, resplendent in her straining bikini.  Her sidekick Flag Girl stood by her side, and at least had the decency to blush.  Behind Americana’s sculpted ass, the platform of the Professor’s newly-built time machine waited.

Miss Americana’s expression darkened behind her mask.  She was a proud woman and not used to being denied.  “Professor,” she growled, “my… I mean, my good friend Brenda Wade’s money pays for this place.  Do you really want me to put in a word with her about how… diligently, you use your funding?”

The Professor’s blood ran cold, and he caved immediately.  “Alright, alright,” he said, bowing his head.  Obediently, he went to the control panel, and started twisting dials.  Flag Girl followed, watching curiously over his shoulder.  Smiling smugly at her easy victory, Miss Americana walked up onto the round steel platform of the time machine.

“Ready?” Professor Whirter asked, as the machine started to hum.

“Ready!” Miss Americana announced, proudly.  A crackle of energy sounded, and a glow of light enveloped her.  When it faded, she was gone.

The wind stirred the woods near the Plymouth colony.  It was autumn, and the leaves were red and orange and brown.  There was a crackle of energy and a flash of light, and Miss Americana appeared.  Sauntering up to the edge of the tree-line, she pulled down a branch and smirked.

Before her, across a large tilled field covered in the remains of harvested wheat, lay a hill.  Atop the hill she saw a cluster of rough-hewn houses overlooking a rocky harbor.  A second adjacent hill nearby held a simple earthwork with a few cannon emplaced upon it.

“Perfect…” she cooed.

There came a rustling in the brush behind her.  Two men emerged, one tall and one short.  They wore black clothing and black hats - but none of the buckles you see in pop-culture depictions.  Each brandished a long flintlock musket.

“Told you I heard a noise," the tall Pilgrim said to the short one.

"Heaven defend us!" the short Pilgrim said, eyes going wide, as he saw what had caused it.

The two Pilgrims gaped in disbelief for several seconds at the stacked scantily-clad beauty that stood before them.

"Hello," Miss Americana said.  She started to move towards them.

But at that instant, the short Pilgrim snapped his musket up and pointed it at her.  "Stay back, witch!" he said.

His companion seemed less sure.  "Are you sure she's a witch?" he asked.

"She's a strange woman hanging out in the woods... what else could she be?" the short one asked.

"Hmm..." the tall one said.  He looked Americana up and down again.  "Well, she has certainly cast a spell on my phallus so..."

He suddenly snapped his musket up, and cocked back the flint.  "Get on your knees and put your hands up, witch!" he said.  "No speaking hexes, either!"

Ms. Americana sighed, and shook her head, as she looked down the barrels of the two Pilgrims' long guns.  "You boys are making a big mistake," she cooed at them, as she cracked her knuckles and prepared to use her superhuman might to subdue them.  "Fortunately I can correct it..."

But suddenly, a noise crackled in the earpiece of the communication system embedded in her earrings and choker.

"Miss Americana!" Professor Whirter's voice said, rising and falling from time distortion as he spoke to her from the viewing panel of his time machine.  "You cannot harm anyone in this period!" he said.  "Given their lack of medical care and poor nutrition, one punch could be deadly.  And each of these men may have tens of thousands of descendents in our modern time… one of which just might be you!  If you lay a finger upon them you might well erase yourself from history!"

"Oh..." Miss Americana gulped.  "Right..."

She looked back and forth between the two men and their guns.  She swallowed, but realized she truly had no choice.  Getting summoned back immediately, in front of the two witnesses, could hardly disturb the time line much less.

"On second thought," she said, "I surrender."

She went down onto her knees before them, and put her hands up.

The taller Pilgrim kept his gun on her, while the shorter Pilgrim came forward.  He had a set of iron manacles he had brought on his patrol, in case they should happen upon a hostile native spying on the colony and have a chance to take him prisoner.  While his partner covered him, he dragged Americana's hands behind her curvy back and manacled them above her ass - having great difficulty keeping his eyes off the panty-swelling contours of her posterior as he did so.  Then he put an iron collar on her, to which was attached a length of chain.

"There," he said, backing up.  "The cold iron should keep the witch from casting any hexes upon us."

"If you say so," Miss Americana said, standing back up.  Due to her superior nutrition and super-human genetics, she stood a head taller than either of them.  "Now, please take me to your leaders so that I may work this misunderstanding out."

Eyeing her up and down, the taller one turned to his partner.  "Let's take her to the Elders," he said.  "Between them, the Reverend, the Governor, and Captain Standish will know what to do with her."

Ms. Americana rolled her eyes.  "That's what I said, you oafs!" she said, the chains clanking as she shifted her bikini-clad body impatiently.

Leading her by her new chain, the two Pilgrims marched Miss Americana out of the woods and up the hill towards the colony.  As she approached, Miss Americana saw that a long table had been set up in the middle of the ring of houses.  Although there were seats for over a hundred, only about forty men sat at it - and despite what should have been the impending festivities they looked nervous and emaciated.  A short distance away upon the hill she noticed a chillingly extensive grave-yard, with nearly as many shallow and hastily-dug graves as she saw living people in the colony.

A little ways away from the main table, a second table had been set up for the Elders of the community - though here too there were several empty seats.  They sat only on one side, facing towards the rest of the community.  Miss Americana was brought to stand before the Elders, while the rest of the male colonists gaped at her in disbelief from where they sat.  Several women and children rushed out to the doors and windows of the houses where they were working preparing the day's large meal and also stared in wonder at the strange woman being led through their midst - although their faces twisted in jealousy when they saw how their men were gaping at her.

As she was marched forth, Ms. Americana wracked her brain desperately, for once, for a non-violent solution to her problems.  'Who would wear a bikini during this time period?' she thought to herself.  Then suddenly, with a gasp, she got an idea.

"We caught this strangely-attired and exotically-shaped one snooping about in the north-west forest," the tall pilgrim said.

"We think she's a witch," the short one said.  "Shall we put her under some rocks and crush her to find out?"

Stepping forward dramatically, Miss Americana lifted her head high and addressed the elders of the colony directly.

"I am not a witch!" she boldly declared.  "I am an Englishwoman, like you!  But I was captured by the Turks and kept in their harem.  I escaped from the sultan's palace, but was blown by a storm all the way to this shore!"

'That ought to fool these simpletons...' she thought to herself smugly, as she watched them process this.

Before her, at the center of the table, the leading men of the colony sat, pondering her response.  She vaguely recognized them, from their historical portraits:  William Brewster, the Reverend;  Myles Standish, the captain of the colonial militia; and William Bradford, the Governor.  They stroked their beards, considering her.

"Hmmm..." Captain Standish said.  "If what you say is true, and you are no witch, then you should be prepared to prove it so," he said.

"Prove it?  And how should I do that?" Ms. Americana asked, indignantly.

"If you were a harem girl," Captain Standish said, "then you know how to dance like one.  So... show us."  He turned his head to the man next to him.  "Do you permit this Reverend?" he asked.

Beside him, Reverend Brewster shifted uncomfortably, as he allowed his holy gaze to sweep up and down Americana's flesh.  But then he nodded.  "If it is necessary to prove whether she is in league with the Devil, then, as God wills it..." he said.

Americana gasped.  "H-how can you ask me that?" she said.

Governor Bradford looked at the other two, then back to her - and smirked.  "The Captain has given his orders and the Reverend has given his permission," he told her.  "So if your story is ture then prove it."  He nodded up to the large table.  "You can do it on there, if you would be so kind."

Ms. Americana gasped.  But then she lifted her head and nodded, haughtily.

"Very well," she said.  She held up her wrists behind her back, the manacles clanking on them.  "But I cannot dance in these!" she said.

At a quickly-supplied nod from Captain Standish in his role as commander of the militia, the short pilgrim approached and unlocked Americana's manacles.  But they left the collar on her.  Her chain still held at the far end by the tall pilgrim like a long leash, Miss Americana turned and, with as much grace and dignity as she could muster, marched up to the long table and ascended to stand atop it.  Around her the common Pilgrims - male and female alike - gaped up in awe as she came to tower against the sky above them.

Standing tall before the whole colony, Miss Americana lifted up her arms, and arched her body gracefully.  "Prepare to see my skill, and know I speak the truth!" she said.

And with that, she began to dance.

"H-holy shit..." one Pilgrim gasped, gaping upwards in awe.

"That's blasphemy..." a second beside him murmured.  "Also... god fucking damn," he added, staring up as well.

None of them had ever seen anything like it.  Miss Americana did her best to imitate how she had seen strippers or slutty girls in night clubs dance, whenever she had ventured into those places as part of her crime-fighting duties.  Lifting her arms up she shook her enormous cans in broad circles, making them slosh and bounce dramatically within the confines of her gargantuan yet overloaded bra.  Going down low, she bounced her ass just above the table, while presenting an excellent view of her panty-clad crotch between her wide-spread thighs.  Twirling about, she shook and shimmied her ass for them, showing off the grace and flexibility of her muscular legs at the same time she shook the contours of her enormous bubble-butt.

Midway through her performance, there came a loud crackling - then a pilgrim suddenly came up holding a large wooden bowl.

"Verily, my friends," he said, "I was so distracted by the witch's performance, I dropped the last of that 'maize' stuff into the fire and - look what happened!"

His large bowl was filled to the brim with popcorn.  Passing it around, the Pilgrims munched eagerly as they watched Miss Americana, having become lost in her own perfectionism, continue to dance and dance seductively before them.

A little later, munching a little popcorn of his own, Myles Standish leaned over and put his lips near Reverend Brewster's ear.

"Did the Lord really condone this, William?" he asked, chuckling softly.

Reverend Brewster shook his head.  "After so many deaths the colony certainly needed a boost of morale," he said.  "Clearly God sent us one.  Also, shut up."  Taking some of Captain Standish's popcorn, he munched on it as well as he watched Ms. Americana, bent low at the waist, shake and shimmy her enormous breasts in such a way that he could like right down the tremendous cleavage between them.

Suddenly, a distraught sentry came running into the midst of the colony - stopping only briefly, to gape at what he had been missing in wonder.

"Governor Bradford, Governor Bradford!" he moaned - his eyes still darting over repeatedly to take in the dancing Queen of Justice in awe.  "The Indians!  They are not coming!  They are turning back - and taking their food with them!"

At this a great groan rose from the Pilgrims, even as they continued to stare at Ms. Americana's wiggling and grinding bubble-butt.

"What?!" Governor Bradford gasped.  "But our stores are almost depleted!  Without that food, we'll starve!  Why have they turned back?!"

The sentry nodded up to Ms. Americana.

"When the Sachem's party came out of the woods, they saw the huge teats and fat ass on that one," he said.  "The Sachem said that if we had a woman of such bountiful proportions, we surely could not be starving, and had deceived him as to our lack of food..."

At this, Ms. Americana stopped dancing and gasped down in shock.

"My ass is not fat!" she hissed, her face quivering in fury behind her mask.  Reaching back she slapped her gloved hand against her ass repeatedly, turning so every member of the community got to see - showing off that though it was awesomely projecting and generously curved, every inch of her enormous bubble-butt was in fact taut and silky muscle.  "Two hours a day on a stairmaster doesn't lead to fat!" she hissed.

Reverend Brewster turned to Captain Standish, their veteran soldier and military expert.  "What's a stair-masterer?" he asked.  "Some sort of Turkish siege engine?"

Myles shrugged, puzzled.

"Never mind that!" Governor Bradford said.  He stood up, getting the community's attention off Ms. Americana.  "This is a disaster!  We have to find some way to make amends.  If Massasoit breaks the treaty and stops giving us supplies, we are done for!"

"Hmmm..." said Captain Standish.  "What we need is some sort of tribute to appease him - a peace offering, if you will."

"But the whole point is we have no food!" Reverend Brewster pointed out.  "What sort of peace offering could we give?"

"We could give them our guns, or the cannon," Governor Bradford said.

"And surrender our only military leverage?" Captain Standish scoffed.  "I would sooner dump them in the sea!"

"The Indians are yet heathens," Reverend Brewster pointed out.  "They do not follow Christian virtues.  So what sort of 'peace offering' might they be interested in?"

For a short time, the Pilgrims looked at one another.  Then, slowly, all eyes turned up to look at Miss Americana - and stared at her spectacular and well-displayed body meaningfully.

Miss Americana stared back for a few seconds, still perched imperiously upon their table.  Then, as she realized what they were all thinking, her jaw dropped.

"No..." she whispered.  "No, no, NO!"  Reaching up she folded her hands over her giant breasts - which given the quantity of her flesh on display, did little to reduce the quality of the goods for them to consider when evaluating potential tributes.  "How... how can you even consider that?!" she hissed.  "Aren't you Puritans?!  A Godly people?!"

Reverend Brewster shook his head.

"We are," he affirmed.  "But, woman, even God must recognize a lost cause at some point.  Verily, I see from your attire that you have already committed adultery no less than four times!"

Lifting his hand, he pointed to various parts of Ms. Americana's body.  Upon her tiara and upon her belt was emblazoned a bright red A.  Her red gloves also each had a large blue A upon them.

"I know well the meaning of the scarlet A's," Reverend Brewster said.  "The azure ones I am not familiar with, perhaps they mean you only soiled your mouth or your posterior entrance?  But regardless, woman, I am a man of God... but at some point surely one does have to ask - is the Good Lord going to give the tiniest of shits about a few more?"

Looking down, Ms. Americana gasped as she stared at the bright red A upon her belt, and the blue ones upon her gloves - and finally remembered her Hawthorne.

‘Great Justice!  Why didn’t I pay more attention in high school lit class?’ she thought - marking the first time in all of recorded history that this has occurred.

But then she looked back up - and saw that all the Pilgrims were nodding in agreement with their spiritual leader.  She swallowed.

Suddenly, a sound came over her microphone.  "You made the choice to go back into the past," Professor Whirter chided her.  He could not quite keep the relish out of his voice, to see the arrogant heroine hoisted upon her own scantily-clad petard.  "It is your duty now to make sure history goes forward... no matter what that takes!"  He cut the feed again.

Americana gasped.  But then, squirming before the staring Pilgrims, she bowed her head and then slowly nodded.

"V-very well," she said.  "If it is what must happen... then so be it."

At this, one of the few surviving female Pilgrims could remain properly silent no longer.

"Hey!" she snapped, from where she stood in the door of her roughly-built house, an apron over her simple dress and a young child staring up past her skirts.  "You might fool them," she said, nodding at the men, "but you can't fool me.  Given how you just danced in front of my husband, and that after all this time you still wear that harem attire with relish, don't pretend you don't want every cock you can take you thrice-damned Jezebel!"

At this, Miss Americana gasped in shock.  But she did not get a chance to respond, for around her the men had already launched into preparing their response - it had to be sent swiftly, before the Indian column could get too far.  With haste, a runner was sent, vanishing into the woods.

In due time, a large party of Native Americans emerged from the forest and began to approach.  In the meantime, Miss Americana had gotten down off the table, and now stood under guard nearby, beside and in front of the table of the elders.  Miss Americana gulped in trepidation when she saw their numbers - there may have been forty or so adult male Pilgrims left, but there were more than twice that number of Indians approaching - all of them men.  

At the head of the column, there came a grand and muscular figure with burnished bronze skin, a large head-dress on his head.  This, she knew from history and from the whispered comments of the Pilgrim elders just beside her, was Massasoit, the Great Sachem of the Wampanoag people.  It was only the treaty he had signed with the now-late Governor Carver, and its attendant protection from raiding and repeated deliveries of food, that had enabled the meager settlement around her to survive at all.  At his side walked another Indian man in a mixture of native and Pilgrim garb - from more comments among the elders Americana discerned that this was Squanto, the Pilgrims' tutor and interpreter.  Although he normally lived amongst the Pilgrims, he had gone off to help escort Massassoit in for this very important meeting.

They were also, she could not help but notice, much more buff and handsome than she expected.  As she gazed upon them, a strange tingle ran up and down between her legs - accompanied by a sudden and mysterious abundance of fluids.

Behind Massassoit came a column of nearly a hundred Wampanoag warriors; a few came armed, but most were instead carrying great baskets filled with food.  Turkeys; fish; pumpkins; maize; squash and cranberries, all in enormous quantity.  Five recently felled deer were also carried, each on the shoulders to two strapping Wampanoag hunters.  The Pilgrims' own supplies were very meager, more so than they would even admit to in the historical record - and Miss Americana realized that without the Indians' food the First Thanksgiving Feast would instead be replaced by a Great Starvation, and the probable extinction of the Plymouth colony.

However, although they had come back, the Native American party remained suspicious.  The majority of the column stopped just short of the entrance to the colony, and only Massassoit, Squanto, and a small honor guard of strapping warriors came forward to meet the Elders at their table.

"Greetings, Squanto," Governor Bradford said, standing.  "And holy Greetings to the great king Massasoit - may the blessings of our God be upon him."

"Greetings, Governor," Squanto replied.  He bowed slightly, and gestured to his muscular boss beside him.  "But the Great Sachem's mind is not rested.  This one," he said, nodding towards Miss Americana, "and her... impressive... proportions... caused him some distress, that perhaps he had been lied to.  I understand this is not the case?"

Behind him, one by one, each of the native warriors was leaning out and gaping at Miss Americana in awe.  In all their days and travels, they had never seen breasts nearly as enormous as hers, nor a figure quite so bountifully and visibly fertile.

"Please express our deep apologies for the misunderstanding to the Sachem," Governor Bradford replied.  "This woman," he said, gesturing toward where Miss Americana stood chained, "is not a member of our community.  We desired to give him a gift worthy of his own generosity, but as you know we have no food.  So we..."  He glanced at the two Pilgrims who had captured Americana, and still held her leash.  "Obtained her," he decided to say at last, "so that we could have an appropriate present to reward him for his magnanimity."

Squanto turned to Massasoit, and they shared a brief conversation in the Wampanoag tongue, which Americana could not understand - and, she gathered from their nervous squirming, the Pilgrims mostly could not either.  Then Squanto turned back to them.

"I see," he said.  He eyed Ms. Americana up and down.  "The Great Sachem wants to know... exactly what is the nature of this... gift?"

Sitting near and behind her, Reverend Brewster looked up at Ms. Americana's staggering curves.

"You reply to that one, Scarlet-Lettered One," he told her.  "From what we have seen of your instincts with that body, you should not need words to do so..."

Miss Americana blushed deeply.  Then, she nodded.  Before Massassoit, Squanto, the Elders, the Wampanoag warriors, and the entire Pilgrim community, she walked over to stand before the end of the Pilgrims' great main table.  This faced back, directly towards where Massassoit stood, some few meters behind her.  Reaching up, blush deepening on her cheeks, she put her hand between her breasts, and with a flick undid her golden star-shaped bra catch.  Her huge bra, nevertheless under vast strain to contain her super-human rack, exploded apart, allowing her gigantic breasts to spill forth to jostle and sway before everyone.

"God... damn!" she heard Myles Standish say.  Reverend Brewster, sitting right beside him, was himself too occupied by the dropping of his own jaw to call him on his blasphemy.  Even the Pilgrim women appeared breathless at the sight of Americana's giant udders.  A great hew and shout rose among the Wampanoag column, pointing and gaping in disbelief.  Even Massassoit himself, who to this point had stood tall and still like a bronzed god among lesser men, seemed to be affected.   Though he said nothing, as Ms. Americana's huge breasts shook before him his eyebrows went up - and Ms. Americana herself swallowed, as she noticed what seemed to be the stirrings of something disturbingly large in the front of his deerskin trousers.

But she could not stop.  Shrugging out of her bra, she turned and laid it on the table before her.  Then, reaching back, she slipped her gloved hands into the hips of her panties.  She squirmed for a few seconds - as she felt the eyes of every single member of both nations staring at her squirming ass.  Then slowly, bending low, she guided her panties up and over her ass, and down her thighs.  She slipped one boot out of them, then the other, and left them in a tiny colorful heap between her feet.

Then, her lips trembling and her cheeks bright pink under her mask, Miss Americana made the one signal a woman could make that, regardless of language and culture, no man could mis-understand.  Bending over, she put both hands on the table.  Her voluptuous ass lifted up high and wiggling behind her, she slowly slid her boots wider and wider apart, until her long and mighty legs were spread at a nearly forty-five degree angle to either side.  Then lifting her head, she looked back over her shoulder, her blue eyes blinking moistly.  Her dripping pussy was pointed straight back at Massassoit, gaping slightly to show her tender inner lips between the thicker outer ones, in clear and open invitation.

Despite the clarity of Americana's signal, Massassoit still turned and - eyes never leaving the glistening pussy being offered to him - had a brief conversation with Squanto.

"The Great Sachem wishes to know," Squanto said, afterwards, "whether this gift is for him alone, or for his people as well."

The Pilgrim Elders looked at each other.  

Reverend Brewster shrugged.  "As I said," he stated, "at a certain point one must ask, does God care about a few more?"

Governor Bradford nodded.  "Anyone and everyone can partake of our gift," he said, "as the Chief wishes."

"Oh... G-Great Justice!" Miss Americana whimpered, her eyes blinking in horror.  But, knowing she had no choice if she was not to change history, although they trembled, her mighty thighs remained spread wide, and her hands, though they shivered, remained planted flat to the table.

Squanto and Massasoit shared another brief conversation.  It concluded with what appeared to be a magnanimous gesture by Massassoit, towards Americana's waiting and naked pussy.  Squanto nodded, and then stepped forward.

"The Great Sachem accepts your generous gift," he said.  Reaching up, he began to take off his shirt.  "As he knows your laws would not permit you to do so yourselves, he wishes that I test her first, to make sure she is worthy of him.  He will have her after me, and then the rest of the tribe."

Miss Americana let out a tiny whimper of disbelief, as she heard this.  But, strangely, the news seemed to have another effect on her pussy - where, between her muscular thighs, her naked slit suddenly seemed to drip with even more gooey juices than before.

Unable to watch her fate coming, Americana turned her head away and instead looked down the table.  This did little to lessen her humiliation, however, as she now just got to watch the entire Pilgrim community staring up at her, as she stood ready to secure their futures with the much-questioned purity of her gaping vagina.

Standing behind her, Squanto took off his pants.  This caused an immediate stir among the Pilgrim women.

"By the Lord..." the woman who had called out Ms. Americana said, her eyes going hypocritically wide.

Another shook her head slowly, even as the adolescent daughter clutching at her skirts stared with wide eyes.  "I... I had... suspected..." she said, rubbing her daughter's head comfortingly.  "But I did not realize the true extent of the native's... gifts."

Fortunately for the Pilgrim women, their men were too busy staring at the naked Queen of Justice to see where their wives' attention was directed.  Meanwhile Ms. Americana, her face down and looking at the table, was the only one who could not see what was coming up behind her.  So she didn't have any clue what she was in for, until Squanto's dark hands appeared upon her pale curvy hips, and he swung himself up into position.

"Oh!" Ms. Americana gasped, her blue eyes spreading wide - as she realized that, with both of his hands accounted for on her flesh, what she was feeling nuzzling up against her drooling pussy could not be a fist or arm, as she in the initial moment of contact suspected.  She gasped deeply, her eyes spreading even wider, as his tip started to part her.  She shook her head.

"Oh... oh my God..." she said - as her pussy lips spread wider and wider around the incoming bronze cock-head, until they quivered to either side of the crest of his uncircumcised penis.  "I... I didn't know..." she whimpered, "that... that Squanto was so huuNNGG!"  Her voice rose up to a squeal, as he thrust deep inside her.

"Is," the native interpreter calmly corrected the English-woman on her grammar.  Then, taking a tight grip on her hips, he began to slam his massive penis vigorously back and forth inside her drooling slit.

Miss Americana shook and squealed, as he nailed her.  All around her, the Pilgrim men and women stared in awe.  But Americana was not the only one to be affected by the experience for long.

"Oh... yes!" Squanto announced.  Sliding his eager dark hands around from her hips he cupped her enormous breasts from below, and squeezed them, as he continued to nail her gaping pussy with bountiful vigour and abandon.  "This... strange woman... is indeed... worthy of the Sachem!" he said.  He rolled his head and gasped in awe.  "My goodness!  She is so tight!" he marveled, squeezing her enormous hooters and stroking their erect tips with his fingers.  "And yet... there is an ocean inside her hips!"

"Very good!" Massasoit announced - revealing that, though he naturally depended on his interpreter for complex and important negotiations, he had had the foresight to learn some rudimentary English himself.  He removed his pants and then his loincloth - which caused another stir among the Pilgrim women, as it was revealed that Squanto was not a unique outlier among his people.  "In her, shoot fast," Massassoit directed, using what words he knew so that he would not surprise or confuse his strange hosts, "I want in her, my first use to take."

"F-first use?!" Ms. Americana managed to whimper, in horror, in between the moans and yelps Squanto's big thrusting cock was forcing out of her.  But she didn't have long to contemplate that.

"That is no problem at all, my lord!" Squanto replied.  Relaxing himself he thrust his enormous hardened penis deep into Ms. Americana and, with a groan of ecstasy, unleashed his potent Patuxet seed upon her defenseless womb.

"Oh, G-Great Justice!" Americana groaned, her eyes rolling up in her head, as she felt the pulsing of his great penis inside her, and knew it meant that his sperm was flooding into her.

He pulled out and then stepped aside, his long cock dripping.

"I have lubricated her for you, my Sachem," he said, gesturing towards Americana's pussy - which, gaping slightly wider than before, was also already releasing a long tendril of his semen to dangle down between her thighs.

"Very good!" Massassoit said.  He stepped forward and took up his own position behind her.  Reaching out he stroked her toned bubble-butt, and shook his head.  "This," he said, squeezing Americana's bulging silky cheeks, "is a very rich gift, indeed!"

With that he pushed himself up against her leaking pussy, and also entered her.

"Ohh... my Goddd..." Ms. Americana whimpered, as she too discovered Squanto was not to be a unique case.  Her entire body shivered, as the great chief's enormous copper-colored penis sank deep up inside her helplessly quivering pussy.

"That's a sin!" one of the Pilgrims sitting near her chided - and continued eagerly to watch.

At the sight that their chief had accepted the gift and that peace had been restored, the waiting column of Wampanoag warriors let out a great whoop of glee.  Then, hoisting their burdens, they marched into the Plymouth settlement.  The Pilgrims greeted them warmly, food was handed out - the Pilgrims contributing their meager stocks of beer and bread to the natives' largesse.  Soon the great feast was in progress, with Wampanoag and Pilgrim dining and chatting together, sampling the first dishes as the Pilgrim women and their daughters and servants worked to prepare the main courses.

And through it all, bent over at one end of the great table at which the First Thanksgiving was being laid, Ms. Americana continued to get nailed.  Massassoit's great penis, in his eagerness, lasted only slightly longer than Squanto had.  But there was plenty more where that had come from.  He was followed by Samoset, the Sagamore of the Abanaki tribe, who kept closer tabs on the strange new colonists while the Sachem was busy with other matters.  After Samoset, the Sachem's honor guard took their turns; and after they had finished, every warrior in the entire column came up one by one and also partook in Ms. Americana's flesh.  

The Pilgrims, with their Godly morals, piously abstained - but this did not stop the Pilgrim men's faces from showing deep jealousy, that their native guests got to enjoy two great helpings of Thanks-giving bounty instead of just one.

In between their own turns upon Ms. Americana's body, Massassoit, Squanto, and Samoset took their own seats at the table of the Elders - and with it, a privileged view of the action up between Americana's muscular shivering thighs, as the pale-skinned beauty got nailed by one long uncut native penis after another after another.  Between her spread thighs they could also see her enormous breasts hanging down low and swaying wildly over the table as she squealed and squirmed under her furious and unchecked invasions - as if her enormous milk-filled udders were blessing the heavily-laden table with their own generous bounty.

“Does this disturb you, Pilgrim?” one native who had also picked up some English asked.  Sitting down after his own turn inside her he found an open seat before Americana's enormous swaying udders, smoking a post-coital pipe.  "I thought your God does not approve of this sort of thing."

The Pilgrim shook his head.  “Nah,” he said.  “God makes everyone for a purpose.  I think it’s pretty clear what he made this one for.”  

Then, leaning forward, the Pilgrim seized one of Americana's giant breasts and held his glass up under it.  He squeezed, discharging a rich squirt of milk from the heroine's hanging fruits into his cup.  He took the cup back, threw it back, and then licked some of the delicious white super-milk off his lips.  

“Well, that and this!” he said, as he held the glass up.  

Seeing yet another way in which the mysterious woman could be used in a celebration of plenty, other Pilgrims soon came forward to also eagerly sample the fuck-quivering cow’s produce.  Americana, too busy squealing as she got nailed by one big native dick after another, could do nothing to resist as her big breasts were squeezed and squeezed until finally even those bottomless udders were drained dry.

Eventually, the entire feast had been consumed and everyone was full and sated.  Even Americana's belt-boosted strength eventually failed her, and after eighty or so consecutive fucks up against the table her knees finally buckled and she sank down, a quivering wreck.  She had taken so much cum inside her that rivers seemed to flow down her thighs, and a huge puddle had formed, which her knees landed in with twin pearly splashes like comets entering an ocean of gooey white fluid.

But though she was spent, she had not even begun to exhaust the collective vigor of the Wampanoag delegation.  Flipping her over, the warriors positioned her on her back at the edge of the First Thanksgiving table - which, the feast having been largely consumed, was now otherwise covered in a great mass of empty used bowls, plates, and tableware.  Then, having positioned her, they continued nailing her almost-limp body face-to-face upon the table - as, around them, the dessert course finally began to be served.

The tight order of the early stages of the feast had by now broken down, and Elder and commoner, Indian and Pilgrim were now all mixing freely.  Copious quantities of beer had also flowed along with the food, and everyone was now quite contentedly drunk - as while the Puritans were against many things, booze was not actually one of them.

"I say Reverend," the short Pilgrim commented to William Brewster, as they stood side by side near the entrance of a house and watched Americana's continuing show.  "Everyone has eaten their full - except for the harem girl.  It seems rather unsuited to a great Thanksgiving like this to leave one, even a harlot and serial adulteress such as she, unsated."

"True," the Reverend said.  "But the food has already been cleared.  What is there for her to eat?"

"There is... one set of sausages that have not been touched," the tall Pilgrim said, finally dropping what they were angling for.  "I know that putting them where the Indians are putting theirs is a sin... but what about her mouth.  Does that, you know... count?"

"Hmmm..." the Reverend Brewster said.  "Normally I would say yes.  However, this is a special festive day, and she was clearly sent by Providence itself to perform exactly this... function... so perhaps, just once."  As he saw the brightening expressions on the two Pilgrims' faces, he shook his head, and raised a chiding finger.  "However, for the sake of the harmony of our settlement," he added, "it is not just God who must be consulted."

As it happened, the Reverend's own wife was at that moment emerging from the house behind them, carrying two freshly-baked pies.  The Reverend's sons, Truelove Brewster* and Wrestling Brewster*, trailed behind her, carrying another pie each.

"What say you, Mary?" the Reverend asked her - knowing full well her sharp ears would have overheard everything.

"Hmm..." Mary Brewster said.  She glanced at the other Pilgrim wives scattered about the festival - of which there were not many.  Between the composition of the original complement of settlers and the terrible toll of deaths that had occurred over the previous winter, there were now a great deal more men than women in the colony.  The few other wives looked at her, significantly, saying nothing but their expressions communicating much.  Nodding with understanding, Mary turned back to her husband.

"I know that men build up a great deal of... pressure... if they are not given release," she said.  "So, I would say it is fine if the unmarried or widowed men sate themselves while sating the whore.  It might reduce... future problems.  But the married men will be sated by their wives - or else!"  She lifted up a finger and glared.

"Of course," Reverend Brewster said.  He could not quite keep the disappointment out of his voice that he would not be among those allowed to partake.

But before he could give general approval for the new plan, Mary caught one of the other wives widening her eyes to get her attention.  The silent wife nodded a couple times, significantly, towards Americana's moaning lips, and then looked at Mary meaningfully.  Mary nodded.

"There is one other condition," she added, hastily.  "We good women of the colony have had to endure our husbands watching the whore get nailed, in silence.  We have done so, for the future of our settlement.  However, we must get compensated."  She looked at her husband, her eyes boring into him.  "So after the unmarried men have fed her their main course, we will feed her dessert... of the pies we have long had prepared between our legs, but rarely if ever had eaten.  Is this clear?"

The two junior Pilgrims' eyes widened, as if they had never imagined such a thing.

"Good heavens!" the tall one said, fingers going to his own lips.

"Is... is that permitted under Heaven's law, Reverend?" the short one asked.

"Uh..." Reverend Brewster said.  He wracked his memory of the Good Book, trying to think of a clear passage one way or the other.  "To be honest," he said, "I'm not sure if the Good Lord considers that sex, or not..."

"Then there should be no problem, should there?" Mary asked testily.

"I guess not," he said, deciding to err on the side of marital harmony over strict doctrine for once.  God's forgiveness, after all, was infinite.  His wife's, on the other hand...

Of course, before the natives' 'peace offering' could be used in this manner, clearance first had to be gotten from Massassoit.  But the Great Sachem, in a very relaxed state having thoroughly drained his own scrotum over the course of five separate sessions within Miss Americana, was in a magnanimous mood, and with a simple nod of his bronzed head and wave of his hand signalled his approval.

So it was that as the pies got laid out, cut, and consumption began eagerly, one by one Pilgrim men began to ascend the table.  As with the Indians, they went in strict order of rank - and, his own wife Rose being one of the casualties of the previous winter, this meant that Myles Standish was first in line.

"Open wide, and say your grace," he advised her, as having preemptively removed his pants, he came in for a landing on her moaning tongue.

Miss Americana whimpered loudly as his penis entered her mouth.  Pure instinct took over almost immediately.  Wrapping her lips tight around his respectable but - compared to some of the monsters that had been in her pussy that day - modestly-sized penis, she began to suck it enthusiastically.

"Oh, yes!" Myles said.  He lifted his eyes heavenward, as she slurped and slurped upon him.  "T-truly, this wench was sent by the Lord!" he said, before erupting down her throat and giving her her first load of cum to swallow.

It would, of course, not be the last.  As the lesser Pilgrims had pointed out, while everyone else had had their fill, at this First Thanksgiving Americana had had none.  Now, they made up for that.  One after another, unmarried Pilgrim men climbed up and, sometimes still eating pieces of pie as they did so, inserted their fresh sausages down between her lips.  Americana moaned, and blushed - and sucked each one as vigorously and worshipfully as she could, as if they were truly her gifts from God.  One warm protein shake after another poured down her throat, finally filling up her until-now-empty belly - and each and every one she gulped down with a vigour equal to the holiday.  Then after each one finished she opened wide and,  extending out her tongue, began putting preparatory licks upon the next incoming penis that inevitably replaced the last one in the never-ending cornucopia of cock she was being served.

In the meantime, watching all this, and knowing that based on Mary Brewster's pronouncement they would not get their own full Thanksgiving repast any other way, one by one the married Pilgrim men snuck away from the party with their now equally enthused and eager wives, into the bushes or the backs of the more remote houses, to do what married couples do.  Although, given the inspirations provided by Americana's marathon performance, they generally put a little more effort and creativity into it than they typically had.  One by one, flush-faced and hand-in-hand they returned to the center of the festival - in a few cases with the seeds of another few thousand modern descendants quietly germinating under the Pilgrim womens' hastily re-lowered skirts.

So it was that, when the Pilgrim men and the natives alike had finally sated themselves - well after the dessert course and into the after-meal drinking and general turkey-clobbered lethargy - Americana got her final surprise.  With the coast finally clear, the Pilgrim wives climbed up one by one and got the 'compensation' that Mary Brewster had negotiated for them.  As they lifted their skirts and lowered their unkempt bushes down towards the invading harlot's open gasping lips, Americana moaned to discover, one after another, that there was a pie of fresh cream waiting for her under each and every skirt, to accompany the gutted pumpkin and other pies lying spent all around her.

But she didn't have much choice.  Digging her tongue up between the wives' outer lips, she did her best to show them how it was done.

"Ooh!" one Pilgrim woman after another sighed, heads rolling and shivering, as they discovered at the tip of the 'harem girl's' practiced tongue a pleasure their husbands had rarely, if ever, managed to provide them.  Americana was not by nature a pussy-eater - but she had been put into that position often enough by triumphant villainesses to know her way around.  She stroked the inner lips, teased the hood, and then finally went after the excited clit with vigour.  And as she did so, streamers and tendrils of married Pilgrim cum poured out into her own mouth - which, like all the others before her, she periodically paused to gulp down hungrily before resuming her probing services.

Finally, the last dish of all - the one between the legs of Mary Brewster herself - was served to her.  As she stroked and stroked between Mary's labia, and felt the Reverend's hallowed semen wash down her tongue, Americana heard her ear-ring microphone crackle.

"Just so you know, Ms. Americana," she heard Flag Girl's voice say, excitedly, "the semen you are currently eating will give rise to at least one Nobel Prize recipient, several Oscar-winning actresses and actors, one Supreme Court Justice, several Governors and Senators, a bunch of highly decorated Admirals in the U.S. Navy, and one President."  The events she was getting to witness through the professor's Time Viewer were inspiring an interest in history the airheaded sidekick had never felt before, and she was eagerly scrolling through the lists of descendants of the various people her mentor was getting fucked by.  "Isn't that cool?!" Americana heard her squeal.

Americana whimpered.  "Wonderful..." she managed to moan into Mary Brewster's pussy, and with a lap of her tongue, sent more thrillingly historically-significant semen running down her throat.

At last even the Pilgrim women had had their fill of serving up themselves, and receiving the novel pleasures of the harem girl's tongue in return.  With Pilgrim and native alike now full and tired, they all started to decamp.  The Pilgrims wandered back into their homes.  The native leaders had had a few dwellings set aside for them, and the rest would make camp just outside the settlement.

As the throng began to disperse, Governor Bradford, Squanto, and Massassoit stood side-by-side - surveying what was left of the Pilgrims' 'peace offering'.

Americana lay sprawled upon the Thanksgiving table, as utterly and thoroughly consumed as any of the empty dishes all around her.  She was not unconscious, but her blue eyes stared glassily up at the sky and didn't seem to see anything.  She still had her belt, no one knowing to try to take it off of her - but despite that no muscle of her mighty curvy body seemed capable of movement, save for the slow rise and fall of her huge breasts as she breathed.  Rivers of cum seemed to pour out of her pussy, spilling down in waterfalls between the planks of the table to form a vast growing lake underneath it.

"Shall we clean this mess up?" Governor Bradford asked, nodding towards Miss Americana.

Without waiting for his interpreter, Massassoit shook his head.  "No need," he said.

"It can wait until morning," Squanto assured him, smirking at the sight of the sprawled fucked-out white harlot.  "Everyone is very tired and content."

“Especially her!” Massassoit said, and tilting his head back let out a booming laugh.

"Should we post a guard on her then?" Governor Bradford asked.

Massassoit again shook his head.

"The Sachem's warriors watch well all the approaches through the woods," Squanto advised.  "No enemy tribe will enter here to take her.  As for her - look at her.  Do you think she can even walk at this point, let alone outrun the finest hunters of the Wampanoag people?"

"Good point," Governor Bradford admitted.  "So... in that case, I have a small stash of brandy left.  Shall we share some?"

At this Massassoit tilted his head back and laughed vigorously.  "Now this, is a good idea!" he said.

With that the two natives and the Pilgrim turned and proceeded to the Governor's house, to continue their conversation.

Americana was left alone, lying spent on the First Thanksgiving table.  Soon all around her was quiet - save for the distant sound of a couple married Pilgrims getting in a second round.  Panting, she stared at the stars, still in shock.  Occasionally her gloved fingers twitched, down beside her wide and absurdly well-filled hips.  Other than that, huge buns squished against the rough-hewn planks of the table, and huge tits rising and falling in the cool Massachusetts night, she could make no other move.

At last, everyone nearby had either left or fallen asleep - and the coast was clear.  Miss Americana's body began to glow.  Her bikini - having been passed around and marveled at by various members of the party before being finally added as decorative elements to the top of the main centerpiece - glowed as well.  Her chain, which had been secured to one leg of the table some time ago, did not.

With a flash she was gone, leaving the Plymouth colony as mysteriously as she had entered it.  The chain, disturbed by the wind of her passage, clanked to the ground.  Pilgrims and natives alike would find it empty in the morning and assume that against all odds the 'harem girl' had managed to slip away in the night - and was probably therefore a witch after all.  But, having already gotten very full use of her pussy, and since the blame for this could only rest primarily on his own sleepy sentries, Massassoit would not fault the Pilgrims for this and the treaty would not again be endangered.  History, such as it was, for better or worse, was saved.

Back in the current time, Flag Girl stood by, shivering nervously, as she watched the professor work the controls.  A shining form slowly appeared upon the platform - a sprawled and shapely silhouette laid out spread-eagled atop it.  Two smaller blobs appeared beside her, for her retrieved bra and panties.

Then, with a last flash, the reverse time passage was complete.  The machine hummed down, as Ms. Americana and her discarded costume lay quivering upon the platform, once more in the flesh.

"Oh, thank the Goddess!" Flag Girl gasped, rushing forward in relief.  Then, halfway to embracing her mistress, she suddenly gasped, skidded to a halt and froze.  "Wh-what?" she gasped.

"Oh, yes," the Professor said.  Looking down upon Americana from the control station beside the platform, he scratched his head sheepishly.  "Yes, sometimes the time particles have... odd effects like this."

Upon the platform Ms. Americana groaned.  Having recovered some of her strength and energy during the passage back, she lifted her head.  She gasped, her curvy naked body rolling back and forth upon the platform - as rivers of semen continued to drip off it.  Then, lifting one hand up to hold her head, she raised the other to comfortingly caress her aching belly - and then suddenly let out a loud yelp.

"Wh- what the?!" Miss Americana gasped.

Lifting up her trembling gloved hand, she raised her head and stared down between her breasts in shock.  There, rising up before her, which her fingers had unexpectedly encountered, her once-flat belly had already started to swell upwards considerably.  She was six or seven months' pregnant, at least.

"Oh... G-Great JUSTICE!" Miss Americana groaned, staring at her own enormous belly in disbelief.

"What... what happened?" Flag Girl squealed, hands over her lips.

"As I said," the professor said.  Picking up a hand-held bio-scanner, he leaned over and began using it to examine Miss Americana's swollen belly.  "The time-stream can have... odd effects sometimes.  The exterior didn't age a day, if the still-runny and viable state of all this semen is any indication.  The inside, well..."  He shrugged.

Miss Americana shook her head, eyes glued to her impregnated body.  As the Professor had stated, despite the advanced state of her pregnancy, streamers of seemingly fresh and gooey cum continued to flow out of her ravaged pussy lips, down onto the platform, spreading around her buxom buns.

"There's... there's no way my sonic device can deal with this," she whimpered.  "Could you get me to Doctor Lingam fast?  Maybe... maybe she could still fix this for me."

"Maybe," the Professor admitted, still studying his scanner.  "But regardless of one's normal feelings on that practice, I think it might be considered a particularly unique crime in this case."

"What... what are you talking about, Professor?" the Queen of Justice gasped.

He pointed at his scanner readout.  "The other half of the genetic material in your womb matches no known human bloodline," he said.  "Do you know what that means?"

Ms. Americana shook her head, glaring up at him furiously.  "No of course not!" she said.  "But since it's god-damn inside of me, just tell me!"

"The Native American known as Squanto," the Professor said, still looking over his readings with clinical detachment, "he was the one who had the first crack at your pussy, correct?  And he was among the longest of those who fucked you, based on what we saw on the viewer - so if anyone's sperm reached your egg first, it was probably his.  Correct?"

"Yes!" Americana said.  She squirmed in particular, at the mention of the native interpreter's long penis, as it promptly dragged up deep memories of what it had felt like inside her.  "Get to the point!" she said - naming an activity that none of the natives who had fucked her, least of all Squanto himself, had had any trouble at all doing within her.

"Well," he said.  "In history as we previously understood it, the Patuxet tribe was entirely wiped out by disease save for one survivor.  That would be Squanto.  History tells us that he succumbed to European diseases himself shortly after the First Thanksgiving, and fathered no known children, thus making him the very last of his people."  

Turning it around, he showed her the readings on his bio-scanner.

"Until now," he said.

Americana stared at the readings on the scanner in shock.  In addition to all the genetic readings it also revealed to her that Squanto had gotten a jump on repopulating his tribe in another way as well.  It wasn't one baby inside her, it was twins.  Both boys.  She turned and looked at her impregnated belly.  Then she looked back at the scanner.  

"Oh... oh shit..." she whispered softly.

Flag Girl suddenly started bouncing eagerly on her heels - having finally processed with her limited teen brainpower what the adults were talking about.  "Oh, yay, Ms. A!" she squealed.  "You're going to be, like, the step-mother of an entire nation!  Isn't that so cool?"

Her face shivering in horror and wonder behind her star-spangled patriotic mask, Miss Americana shivered.  "Oh... oh my fucking GOD!" she moaned.  

Overcome by the implications, she slumped back down onto the platform, her buxom naked body once more too overcome by what was happening to it to rise at all.  Quivering against the floor, she shook and gasped in disbelief -  as the seed of a vanished people suddenly re-birthed after a four-hundred-year absence continued to germinate eagerly within her patriotic womb.

Back in the past, Governor Bradford had passed out in his chair.  On a paper beside him, he had already taken some hasty notes about how the day's events could be carefully edited in the colonial records to preserve decorum.  Massassoit and Squanto, still holding glasses of the governor's best brandy, had wandered to the outskirts of the colony.  The escape of the busty peace offering had not yet been discovered.  Sitting down on the side on a large rock by the shore they observed the light of the moon on the harbor in which the strangers had first arrived.

'Does it ever disturb you,' Massassoit suddenly asked, in the Wampanoag tongue, 'to have to teach these people to live atop the graves of your tribe?'

'Sometimes' Squanto admitted.  'But I must do what is best for my people, and I trust you see that better than me.'

'I hope that I do,' Massassoit said.  'Being Sachem is not restful.  I do sympathize though.  The ghosts that dwell here cannot give you much rest either.'

Looking out over the shining harbor Squanto thought back to playing upon this very rock as a child.  He thought about the teenage girl he had courted upon the hill above, who, as it turned out, he had never gotten to make his wife.  He knew what remained of her was under a tree not far away, and visited it occasionally when no one else was watching.

But, because it was so recent, he could also not help but remember the peace offering's pussy squeezing tight around his penis as he unleashed his seed into her.

'It's alright,' he said.  'They just got a little quieter for some reason.'  

Beside him, Massassoit let out a tiny bark of laughter.  'Yes, I'll bet!' he said.

Then, raising their glasses of brandy, they chuckled as they each enjoyed a sip while looking out over the shining sea to the distant horizon.

*Actual Historical Fact.  No, not joking.

Historical Characters

A brief overview for those who did not imbibe this stuff every Thanksgiving through grade school and/or have forgotten it all:

Massassoit - Sachem (essentially chief-over-other-chiefs) of the Wampanoag Confederacy, which dominated much of the land around the Plymouth settlement.  Historically he signed a peace treaty with Governor John Carver in early 1621 that would last for nearly a century.  He was also the one who sent Squanto to act as their interpreter and advisor.  The land the colony was built on had been occupied by one of the tribes of his confederacy which, save for Squanto, had been entirely wiped out by disease.  Without his help, including repeated deliveries of food, it is very unlikely the Plymouth colony would have survived.

Squanto - last surviving member of the Patuxet tribe, whose vacant village the Pilgrims essentially settled on top of.  The entire rest of the tribe was wiped out by a sudden outbreak of disease a few years before their arrival, most likely smallpox; Squanto escaped this fate by being kidnapped by an English explorer and sold into slavery in Spain, during which time he learned English.  Eventually returning to his native land he was sent by Massassoit as the ambassador to his new white allies, and according to legend assisted the Pilgrims greatly in learning to survive in their new home.  In actual history he would die of disease in 1622, a year after the so-called 'First Thanksgiving', leaving no known issue.  In actual records this individual was referred to by several names, and his actual proper name was most likely ‘Tisquantum’, but I went with the version of the name likely to be recognized by the most readers.

William Brewster - though in reality the English Dissenters were a relatively egalitarian lot that rejected formal religious authorities, William Brewster is generally recognized as the chief spiritual leader and authority of the early colony.  I just titled him 'Reverend' for simplicity's sake.  Like many of the Pilgrims William Brewster has tens of thousands of known latter-day or modern-day descendants, but his list is particularly impressive including John Foster Dulles, Richard Gere, Katherine Hepburn, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Sarah Palin, Nelson Rockefeller, Supreme Court Justice David Souter, Commodore Matthew Perry (the dude who 'opened' Japan), Robert Noyce (the inventor of the integrated circuit), WW2 Admiral William 'Bull' Halsey, and President Zachary Taylor.  

Mary Brewster - William Brewster's wife and mother of his children, thus has the same descendent list as above.  I have no historical information that Mary Brewster had the slightest interest in receiving cunnilingus from other women; on the other hand I also don't have any hard information that she didn't...  

William Bradford - second Governor of the Plymouth Colony, after the first governor John Carver died of disease early in 1621.  His journal, titled 'Of Plymouth Plantation,' is one of the primary historical sources on the early colony, including the First Thanksgiving.  His descendants include Alec Baldwin, Clint Eastwood, Christopher Reeve, and Noah Webster, of 'Webster's Dictionary' fame.

Myles Standish - hired by the Merchant Adventurers (non-religious monetary backers of the Mayflower expedition who were in it for potential trading profits) as a military advisor; Myles was not a Puritan, but was instead a career soldier and veteran of warfare against the Spanish in Holland.  However, he still was one of the signatories to the Mayflower Compact.  

SUMMARY:  Miss Americana forces Professor Whirter to send her back to the First Thanksgiving so she can help Flag Girl with a history assignment.  She gets led before the elders of the colony, only for a distraught messenger to run in reporting that the Wampanoag party carrying the majority of the food has turned back.  Having spotted Miss Americana, they have concluded the colony cannot be so hard up for food as they claim if it contains one as well endowed as she is.  In order to restore history, Miss Americana presents herself as a peace offering to restore Massasoit’s favor.  She ends up getting fucked up against the First Thanksgiving table for the entire duration of the famous feast, by a seemingly endless succession of Wampanoag warriors.  Finally, after everyone has had their fill, she is left a sprawled devastated wreck upon the gutted feasting table.  Alone at last, she gets warped safely back to the present… only to discover that her misadventure will have lasting and historic consequences for the interior of her womb.