Masters of Miraflores
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 12: The Shift
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 12: The Shift - 1880 Philippines. Mia, a merchant's daughter, marries into a brutal plantation dynasty. Alana, an Indio concubine, is given to her husband as property. Expected to be rivals, they choose alliance instead—then love. When violence destroys the patriarchs who owned them, these two women seize an empire through strategy, not rebellion. Pregnant and widowed, they negotiate a hostile takeover that leaves them controlling everything: the land, the shipping, the future. Lock, stock, and barrel
Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Reluctant Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Historical Cheating Polygamy/Polyamory Oriental Female Hispanic Male Anal Sex First Oral Sex Petting AI Generated
Month Four - Bodies Changing
The morning sickness had finally eased.
Mia woke without the immediate need to retch, lay still for a moment testing her stomach, and felt only a gentle queasiness instead of the rolling nausea that had plagued her for weeks.
Beside her, Alana was still asleep, curled on her side facing away, one hand resting protectively on her belly even in sleep.
They’d been sharing a bed every night now. Mateo hadn’t come to either of them since learning of the pregnancies. At first, Mia had wondered if it was consideration—letting them rest, protecting the babies.
Then she’d realized the truth: pregnant women didn’t appeal to him. The duty was done, the seed planted. There was no reason to visit their beds anymore.
She should have been relieved.
Instead, she felt a complex tangle of emotions she couldn’t quite name. Not grief—she didn’t miss his touch. Not even anger. Just ... awareness. That they’d served their purpose, and now they were being set aside until they produced the actual product.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Alana murmured without opening her eyes.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No. Your son did.” Alana’s hand moved in small circles over her belly. “He’s very active this morning.”
“How can you tell it’s yours and not mine keeping you awake?”
Alana turned to face her, eyes opening. “Because yours is the polite one who lets you sleep. Mine is the troublemaker.”
Mia smiled, reached out to place her hand beside Alana’s. “They’re both troublemakers. They’re his sons, after all.”
“Don’t remind me.”
They lay like that for a while, both hands on Alana’s belly, waiting. After a moment, Mia felt it—a small flutter, like butterfly wings against her palm.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Was that—?”
“That’s him.” Alana’s voice was soft, wondering. “That’s our son saying good morning.”
Our son. Not “my son” or “Mateo’s son” or “the bastard.”
Our son.
Mia’s throat tightened. “Can you feel mine yet?”
“Not from the outside. But you will soon. Another week or two, probably.” Alana covered Mia’s hand with her own. “And then we’ll both be able to feel both of them. Our boys. Kicking and fighting for space before they’re even born.”
“They’ll be friends,” Mia said. “Brothers. Real brothers.”
“We’ll make sure of it.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. “Señora? Breakfast is ready.”
“Thank you. We’ll be down shortly.”
They rose, helped each other dress. It was harder now with their changing bodies—buttons that had fit comfortably a month ago now strained, laces that needed adjusting, the careful navigation of clothing over tender breasts and swelling bellies.
But they’d developed a rhythm. Alana buttoning Mia’s dress while Mia pinned Alana’s hair. Trading tasks, helping each other, making the morning routine an act of partnership rather than servitude.
“I’m getting fat,” Alana said, looking down at herself.
“You’re pregnant. There’s a difference.”
“Tell that to my dresses. Nothing fits anymore.”
“We’ll have new ones made. For both of us.” Mia turned her around, began working on the laces. “Loose, comfortable. In fabrics that breathe. We don’t have to suffer through this in whalebone and silk.”
“The Don will say it’s improper.”
“The Don can say whatever he wants. We’re pregnant. We’ll dress comfortably.” Mia finished the laces, turned Alana back around. “There. Perfect.”
“I look like a cow.”
“You look beautiful.”
Alana smiled despite herself. “You have to say that. You love me.”
“I do. And you are. Beautiful. Glowing, even.” Mia kissed her softly. “Carrying our son. Creating life. There’s nothing more beautiful than that.”
“Even when I’m sick every morning and can’t fit into my clothes and cry at random moments for no reason?”
“Especially then.”
They finished preparing, checking each other one final time before facing the household. The masks went on—proper mistress, loyal servant. Nothing to see here except two women managing a household through a pregnancy.
But in the privacy of the bedroom, in the moments before they stepped into the world, they were just Mia and Alana. Two women in love, expecting children they’d raise together.
And that was everything.
Mateo’s Perspective
Mateo sat in his study, staring at the ledgers without seeing them, a glass of whiskey at his elbow though it was barely noon.
He’d thought fatherhood would change things. Would make him feel more connected to the women, more central to the household. Would give him purpose beyond the endless cycle of planting and harvesting and managing accounts.
Instead, he felt more peripheral than ever.
Mia and Alana were inseparable now. They’d always been close—uncomfortably close, if he was honest with himself—but pregnancy had fused them into something impenetrable.
They shared everything. Symptoms. Fears. Plans. Preparations.
And when he tried to join those conversations, tried to express interest or concern or excitement about the coming children, they smiled politely and changed the subject or gave him simple, surface answers that shut him out.
“How are you feeling, Mia?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“Do you need anything? Should I call the midwife?”
“Alana’s taking care of it.”
“I’d like to help prepare the nursery—”
“We’ve already handled it. Don’t trouble yourself.”
Every attempt to participate was deflected. Every offer of help declined. Every question answered with just enough information to be polite but not enough to include him.
And at night—God, at night—he could hear them sometimes. Low voices through the walls. Laughter. The intimate sounds of women sharing space, sharing lives, sharing everything except him.
He’d stopped going to their beds. Told himself it was consideration, that pregnant women needed rest, that he was being thoughtful.
But the truth was darker: he didn’t want them anymore.
Pregnant bodies didn’t appeal to him. The swelling bellies, the tender breasts, the way they moved carefully, protectively. It felt wrong somehow to desire them in that state. Like violating something sacred.
So he stayed away.
And they didn’t seem to miss him at all.
That was the part that stung. That they were relieved by his absence. That they preferred each other’s company to his. That even carrying his children, they’d rather be together than with him.
He drained his glass. Poured another.
His father had noticed. Of course he had. Don Rodrigo noticed everything.
“You’re drinking too much,” he’d said last week. “And neglecting your duties.”
“I’m not neglecting—”
“The workers are complaining about late payments. The overseers say you’re distracted. And you reek of whiskey before dinner.” Don Rodrigo’s voice had been cold. “Fatherhood hasn’t made you stronger. It’s made you weak.”
“I’m not weak—”
“Then prove it. Stop moping. Stop drinking. Start acting like a man who’s about to have two sons instead of a boy who’s been excluded from his own household.”
The words had burned because they were true.
He had been excluded. Not deliberately, perhaps. But effectively.
The women had built something without him. A partnership. A family. And he was just the genetic donor, necessary for conception but irrelevant after.
Another glass. The whiskey burned going down but numbed everything else.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe he needed to reassert himself. Remind everyone who was actually in charge here.
He was the heir. The master. The father of these children.
Not some peripheral figure to be managed and deflected and politely dismissed.
He needed to do something about it.
He just wasn’t sure what yet.
Month Five - Deepening
“Can you feel him yet?” Alana asked, her hand pressed to Mia’s belly.
They were in the bath together—something they did every few days now, the warm water easing the aches of carrying extra weight, the privacy giving them space to be themselves.
“Not from the outside,” Mia said. “But I feel him moving. Little flutters. Like yours.”
“They’re getting stronger every day.” Alana’s other hand rested on her own belly, noticeably rounder now. “Sometimes he kicks so hard I think he’s trying to escape early.”
“Mine too. They’re impatient. Like their father.”
“God, I hope not.” Alana’s voice was fervent. “I hope they’re nothing like him.”
“They won’t be. We’ll raise them differently. With patience. With love. With respect for others.”
“Will that be enough? To overcome what’s in their blood?”
Mia was quiet for a moment. Then: “I don’t believe in blood destiny. I believe in choices. And we’ll teach them to make good ones.”
Alana leaned back against her, Mia’s arms coming around to hold her, both women careful of their bellies pressed together.
“I’m scared,” Alana whispered. “About the birth. About what comes after. About everything.”
“So am I.”
“Women die in childbirth. Especially...” She trailed off, but Mia understood. Especially small women like Alana. Especially women with Indio blood who didn’t receive the best medical care. Especially illegitimate mothers whose lives mattered less than the children they carried.
“You’re not going to die,” Mia said fiercely. “I won’t let you. I’ll make sure you have the best midwife, the best care, everything you need. And I’ll be there with you through all of it.”
“You’ll be giving birth yourself—”
“Then we’ll do it together. Side by side if we have to. You’re not going through this alone.”
Alana turned in her arms—awkward with their bellies in the way—and kissed her. Soft and desperate and grateful.
“I love you,” she said against Mia’s mouth.
“I love you too.”
They kissed again, deeper this time. Mia’s hands moved from Alana’s belly to her breasts, gentle with the tenderness there.
Alana gasped softly. “We shouldn’t—”
“Why not? The midwife said it’s safe if we’re careful.”
“I know, but—” Alana’s protest died as Mia’s thumb circled her nipple, now darker and more sensitive with pregnancy. “Oh.”
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