Masters of Miraflores
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 14: The Negotiation
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 14: The Negotiation - 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 Arrival
Felipe Miraflores arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the double funeral.
He came in a hired carriage from Manila, dressed in his best suit—slightly worn at the elbows, carefully mended. Behind him, a single servant carried his modest luggage.
He was twenty-eight years old, a minor clerk in the colonial customs office, living in a rented room that smelled of mildew and old cooking. The Miraflores name had given him entry to decent society, but little else. His branch of the family had fallen on hard times two generations back.
Until now.
The letter from the family lawyer had been clear: Don Rodrigo Miraflores and his son Mateo were both dead. As the nearest male relative, Felipe was heir to two massive sugar plantations, thousands of hectares of prime land, and a fortune built over three generations.
His golden ticket.
His salvation.
As the carriage approached the Grand House, Felipe allowed himself a moment of triumph. No more cramped rooms. No more counting every peso. No more bowing to petty bureaucrats who looked down on him.
He was a plantation owner now. A man of substance.
The carriage stopped. A servant helped him down.
And Felipe saw them.
Two women in black mourning dress, standing on the veranda like sentinels.
One was clearly pregnant—heavily so, maybe eight months along. Chinese features, expensive mourning clothes, standing with the posture of someone accustomed to authority.
The widow. Mia Lian Miraflores.
Beside her, another woman. Also pregnant, though less obviously. Smaller, darker—Indio, he guessed. Standing not behind the widow but beside her.
That must be the concubine. The one the lawyers had mentioned in passing.
Both women watched him approach with expressions that were perfectly polite and completely unreadable.
“Don Felipe,” the widow said, inclining her head. “Welcome to your inheritance. I am Mia Miraflores, widow of your cousin Mateo. This is Alana Reyes, my lady-in-waiting.”
“Señora,” Felipe said, bowing. “Thank you for receiving me. I know this must be a difficult time.”
“We’re managing,” Mia said. Her voice was calm, controlled. No tears. No obvious grief. “Please, come inside. We have much to discuss.”
She turned and walked into the house without waiting to see if he’d follow. The Indio woman—Alana—gestured for him to proceed, then fell into step behind him.
Felipe followed, already slightly off-balance. He’d expected weeping widows, grateful for male guidance. Instead, he’d found composed women who seemed more annoyed by the interruption than devastated by loss.
The Study
They gathered in what had been Don Rodrigo’s study. The desk was cleared except for several ledgers and a stack of correspondence.
Mia settled into the chair behind the desk—the master’s chair—with the casual authority of someone who’d been sitting there for months. Alana stood beside her, one hand resting on a ledger.
Felipe took the visitor’s chair opposite them, suddenly feeling like the supplicant rather than the new master.
“First,” Mia said, “allow me to offer our condolences on the loss of your cousin and his father. It was ... tragic.”
“Thank you. I understand it was quite sudden?”
“Very.” Mia’s expression didn’t change. “Don Rodrigo suffered a heart attack the night after—” She paused delicately. “After the incident with Mateo.”
Felipe had heard the story from the lawyers. Mateo caught attempting to assault a worker. Don Rodrigo shooting him in some kind of crime of passion. The authorities ruling it justifiable.
A scandal, but one the family had managed to contain.
“I’m sorry you had to endure such violence,” Felipe said, meaning it. Whatever else, these were women who’d witnessed something terrible.
“We survived,” Mia said simply. “Now, to business. I’m sure you’re eager to understand your inheritance.”
“I am.”
“Then let me be direct.” She opened one of the ledgers. “You are now the legal owner of two sugar plantations: the North Estate and the South Estate. Together, approximately fifteen thousand hectares of productive land. Four hundred and thirty-two workers. Three mills. Extensive irrigation systems. And currently, about three thousand piculs of processed sugar sitting in warehouses.”
Felipe’s heart soared. It was even better than he’d imagined.
“However,” Mia continued, her tone unchanged, “there are some complications you should be aware of.”
“Complications?”
“The sugar has been sitting in those warehouses for three weeks now. In this heat. Without shipping.” She turned the ledger toward him. “You’ll note the projected losses here. By the end of this week, approximately thirty percent will be unsalvageable. By the end of next week, closer to sixty.”
Felipe stared at the numbers. “Why hasn’t it been shipped?”
“Because,” Alana said quietly from beside Mia, “all shipping contracts with the Lian family were suspended the day after Don Rodrigo’s death.”
“Suspended? On whose authority?”
“Mine,” Mia said. “As the daughter of the Lian shipping family and the former mistress of this household, I control access to Lian vessels. And I’ve instructed my father to suspend all pickups until further notice.”
Felipe felt the first cold touch of unease. “But surely, now that I’m here—”
“Now that you’re here, we can negotiate new terms,” Mia finished. “Which brings us to the other complications.”
She nodded to Alana, who opened a different ledger.
“The workers were paid through last week,” Alana said. “But the estate accounts are ... complex. Don Rodrigo kept certain financial arrangements private. Without his guidance, it’s been difficult to determine which debts are legitimate and which payments should continue.”
“I’ll need to see all the books,” Felipe said.
“Of course. Once we’ve reached an agreement.”
“Agreement about what?”
Mia folded her hands on the desk. “About how this estate will be managed going forward. About authority and responsibility. About the roles each of us will play.”
Felipe felt control slipping away from him. He’d been here less than an hour and already these women were dictating terms.
“With all due respect, Señora,” he said carefully, “I’m the legal heir. The estate belongs to me now. I appreciate your help during the transition, but ultimately, I make the decisions here.”
“Legally, yes,” Mia agreed. “You own the land, the mills, the crops. But ownership and control are not the same thing, Don Felipe. And I think you’ll find that control is what actually matters.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Then let me be very clear.” Mia stood—awkward with her pregnant belly, but somehow commanding anyway. “You own plantations that produce sugar. But without Lian ships, that sugar rots. You own workers. But without Alana’s knowledge of the books, you won’t know who to pay or how much. You own a household. But the servants answer to me, not to you.”
She moved around the desk, stood in front of him.
“You have a name on paper, Don Felipe. We have everything else. The question is: are you wise enough to recognize that and work with us? Or are you foolish enough to fight us and lose everything?”
The Reality
Felipe left the study shaken and returned to the guest quarters they’d prepared for him—comfortable, well-appointed, but decidedly not the master’s chambers.
He needed to think.
The widows—no, the women; they clearly didn’t see themselves as helpless widows—had him boxed in. He could see that now.
Without shipping, the sugar was worthless. Without the Indio woman’s knowledge, he couldn’t manage the finances. Without the widow’s authority, the household wouldn’t obey him.
He was the legal owner of an empire he couldn’t actually control.
Over the next two days, he tried to assert authority.
He demanded to see the full account books. Alana brought him ledgers—but they were copies, summaries, nothing that showed the complete financial picture.
He tried to negotiate directly with Lian shipping, writing to Mia’s father in Manila. The response came back within a day: all shipping arrangements for the Miraflores estates must be approved by Señora Mia Miraflores.
He attempted to give orders to the household servants. They listened politely, said “Yes, Don Felipe,” and then went to Mia to confirm before actually doing anything.
He visited the fields, tried to speak with the overseers. They were respectful but distant. “You’ll need to discuss that with Señora Miraflores,” was the constant refrain.
By the third day, Felipe was desperate.
The sugar was deteriorating. The workers were getting restless about delayed payments. And he had no actual power to fix any of it.
He requested a meeting with Mia.
The Contract
This time, when he entered the study, Mia was not alone.
She sat behind the desk as before, eight months pregnant and somehow still intimidating. Alana stood at her right. And at her left was someone new—a man in lawyer’s clothes, papers spread before him.
“Don Felipe,” Mia said. “Thank you for joining us. This is Señor Santos, my family’s attorney from Manila. He’s prepared a document I think you’ll find interesting.”
Felipe sat. His palms were sweating.
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