Miss Americana goes to the First Thanksgiving

Miss Americana goes to the First Thanksgiving

A super-heroine goes back in time to a sticky-fingered situation.

*

Hit END for a short summary.

"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. She was resplendent in her defiant costume, which consisted chiefly of a patriotic American Flag bikini. A golden belt, the source of her powers, lay cinched tight about her buxom hips, emblazoned with a bright red A upon its buckle, at the center of her broad flat belly. She wore a star-spangled mask upon her face to protect her secret identity, with a matching A on her forehead. Two red gloves with blue A's on the backs of her hands, and gleaming red boots, completed her ensemble.

Her sidekick Flag Girl stood by her side, in a very similar but less ostentatious version of the same costume - 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 woolen clothing and broad-brimmed black hats. 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!"

Miss Americana sighed, and shook her head, as she looked down the barrels of the two Pilgrims' long guns. Given the protections of her belt, she had absolutely nothing to fear from bullets. "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 person 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 even the taller of them. The shorter Pilgrim's head was level with her enormous breasts - a fact that despite his literally puritanical nature he seemed to find immensely affecting. "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."

Miss 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, Miss 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 chief spiritual leader of the colony; Myles Standish, the captain of the colonial militia; and William Bradford, the colony's current Governor. They each 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?" Miss 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 true then prove it." He nodded up to the large table. "You can do it on there, if you would be so kind."

Miss 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 Miss 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 Miss 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 Miss 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, Miss 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 Miss 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 Miss 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 even the Good Lord Himself going to give the tiniest of shits about just a few more?"

Looking down, Miss 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 her hands soiled with flour from her long labors to prepare the day's feast. "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 Native 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 Native man in a mixture of native and Pilgrim garb - from more comments among the elders Americana discerned that this was Tisquantum, better known to most white schoolchildren as 'Squanto' - the Pilgrims' tutor and interpreter. Although he normally lived amongst the Pilgrims, he had gone off to help escort Massasoit in for this very important meeting.