Masters of Miraflores
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 13: Blood and Ash
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 13: Blood and Ash - 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
The Last Day
The heat was oppressive.
Mia sat in the shade of the veranda, fanning herself uselessly, seven months pregnant and miserable. Across from her, Alana dozed in a chair, one hand resting on her belly, exhausted from a sleepless night.
Both women were enormous now. Moving was difficult. Breathing was difficult. Everything was difficult.
“How much longer?” Alana murmured without opening her eyes.
“Two months. Maybe less if they come early.”
“I don’t think I can survive two more months of this heat.”
“We’ll survive,” Mia said, though she wasn’t entirely sure. The heat. The weight. The constant discomfort. And underneath it all, the growing sense of dread about what would come after.
Mateo had been drunk for three days straight. Don Rodrigo had stopped speaking to him entirely, disgusted by his son’s descent. The household walked on eggshells, everyone afraid of drawing the wrong kind of attention.
Something was going to break. Mia could feel it.
She just didn’t know what or when.
The Fields
Mateo stumbled through the cane fields in the afternoon heat, bottle in hand, vision swimming.
His father’s words from that morning still burned: “You’re worthless. A drunk. An embarrassment to the Miraflores name.”
The workers saw him coming and scattered. He didn’t care. Let them fear him. Let them all fear him.
He was the master here. The heir. The father of two sons.
He deserved respect.
Near the workers’ quarters, he saw movement. A girl—young, maybe fourteen—carrying water to the field hands. Indio. Dark skin, slight build.
Like Alana had been when he’d first taken her.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. Alana at fourteen. Small and terrified and his.
Now she belonged to Mia more than she belonged to him.
The rage that had been simmering for months suddenly blazed white-hot.
He deserved better than this. Better than being shut out of his own household. Better than watching his women build a life that excluded him.
He deserved to take what was his.
The girl saw him approaching. Started to bow, to show respect.
He grabbed her arm.
“Master?” Her voice was small, frightened.
“Come with me.”
“Master, I have to bring water to—”
He dragged her toward the storage shed. She tried to pull away, started to cry out.
His hand covered her mouth.
Don Rodrigo
Don Rodrigo was reviewing accounts in his study when he heard the commotion from the fields—raised voices, someone screaming.
He stood, moved to the window. Saw workers running toward the storage sheds.
Saw his son dragging a girl by the arm.
Saw her struggling, crying.
And he knew.
He knew exactly what Mateo was about to do.
For a moment, he stood frozen. His son. His only heir. About to commit an act that would shame the family, that would prove every terrible thing Don Rodrigo had ever thought about his weakness.
I raised this, he thought. This is my legacy. A drunk. A rapist. A failure.
The girl’s screams grew louder.
Don Rodrigo moved.
He took the pistol from his desk drawer—the one he kept for dealing with rebellious workers or thieves. Checked that it was loaded.
Then he walked out of the house, across the courtyard, toward the screaming.
The Shed
The storage shed was dark, hot, reeking of old hemp and sweat.
Mateo had the girl pinned against the wall, one hand over her mouth, the other fumbling with his trousers.
She was crying, making muffled sounds of terror against his palm.
“Be quiet,” he slurred. “Just—be quiet—this will be quick—”
The door slammed open.
Sunlight flooded in, blinding.
Mateo turned, squinting.
Don Rodrigo stood silhouetted in the doorway, pistol in hand.
“Let her go,” Don Rodrigo said. His voice was cold. Empty.
“Father, I—”
“Let. Her. Go.”
Mateo released the girl. She scrambled past Don Rodrigo and ran, sobbing.
Father and son faced each other in the dim shed.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Mateo said. The words were automatic, desperate.
“It’s exactly what it looks like. You were about to rape a child.”
“She’s not a child, she’s—”
“Fourteen years old. Property of this plantation. Under my protection.” Don Rodrigo’s hand was steady on the pistol. “I’ve tolerated a lot from you, Mateo. Your drinking. Your violence. Your incompetence. But this? This I will not tolerate.”
“Father, please—”
“You’ve become everything I feared you would. Weak. Cruel. Dissolute.” Don Rodrigo’s voice was hollow now, drained of emotion. “I thought fatherhood would fix you. Thought responsibility would make you a man. But all it did was reveal what you really are.”
“I’m your son—”
“You’re a disgrace.”
Mateo turned fully now, facing his father. His back to the wall. Exposed. Vulnerable.
“What are you going to do?” he asked, voice shaking.
Don Rodrigo looked at him. At this man he’d raised. This failure. This monster.
And made his choice.
“What I should have done years ago.”
He raised the pistol.
Mateo’s eyes went wide. “Father, no—”
The shot was deafeningly loud in the enclosed space.
Mateo stumbled back, hand going to his chest. Blood bloomed across his shirt, dark and spreading.
He looked down at it, confused. Looked up at his father.
“Why?” he whispered.
Don Rodrigo fired again.
This time Mateo fell, collapsing to the dirt floor. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the dry earth.
Don Rodrigo stood over his son’s body, pistol still raised, watching him die.
It took longer than he expected. Mateo gasped, choked, reached out with one trembling hand.
Don Rodrigo didn’t move. Didn’t help. Just watched.
When it was finally over—when Mateo’s hand fell still and his eyes glazed—Don Rodrigo lowered the pistol.
It’s done, he thought numbly. The line ends here.
He’d killed his only son to preserve the family honor.
Better no heir than this heir.
Better the Miraflores name die in dignity than continue in shame.
He walked out of the shed, past the workers who had gathered, past their shocked faces.
“Send for the priest,” he said to no one in particular. “And someone clean that up.”
Then he walked back to the house, each step heavy as lead.
The Women
Mia heard the shots from the veranda.
Two cracks, sharp and echoing across the fields.
She and Alana looked at each other, both going pale.
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