Masters of Miraflores
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 15: Family
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 15: Family - 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 First Birth
The labor started at dawn.
Mia woke to cramping—low, deep, rhythmic. At first, she thought it was just another uncomfortable morning in the ninth month. But the pain built, wave after wave, and she knew.
“Alana,” she gasped, shaking her awake. “It’s time.”
Alana sat up immediately, eyes wide. “Now? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Another contraction hit, stealing her breath.
They’d prepared for this. Had the midwife on retainer, supplies ready, everything planned.
But now that it was actually happening, Mia felt only terror.
Women died doing this. Her mother had died giving birth to her younger brother who’d also died. Mateo’s first wife—one of them—had died in childbirth.
This could kill her.
“Breathe,” Alana said, already moving, calling for servants. “Just breathe. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”
The midwife arrived within the hour—a competent woman from Manila that Mia’s father had sent, experienced and no-nonsense.
“First baby?” she asked, examining Mia.
“Yes.”
“It’ll be a while then. Settle in. This is going to take time.”
She was right.
The labor lasted fourteen hours.
Fourteen hours of increasing pain, of contractions that felt like her body was tearing itself apart, of screaming and crying and begging for it to stop.
Alana stayed with her the entire time. Held her hand. Wiped her face. Whispered encouragement when Mia was sure she couldn’t do it anymore.
“You can,” Alana insisted. “You’re the strongest person I know. You can do this.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. For him. For our son. Push.”
So Mia pushed.
And pushed.
And pushed.
Until finally—finally—the midwife said, “I see his head. One more. Give me one more push.”
Mia bore down with everything she had left.
And suddenly there was release. Relief. The pressure gone.
And then—a cry.
High and indignant and absolutely perfect.
“It’s a boy,” the midwife announced, holding up a tiny, blood-covered, furious creature. “Healthy lungs. Good color. You have a son, Señora.”
Mia collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing with relief and exhaustion and overwhelming love for this tiny person she’d never met but had carried for nine months.
The midwife cleaned him quickly, wrapped him in soft cotton, and placed him in Mia’s arms.
He was perfect. Tiny fists. Dark hair. Eyes squeezed shut against the brightness. Mateo’s features in miniature—the nose, the jawline—but his own person entirely.
“Hello,” Mia whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Hello, my son.”
Alana leaned over them both, one hand on Mia’s shoulder, the other gently touching the baby’s tiny hand.
“He’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Perfect.”
“Our son,” Mia said. Not “my son.” “Our son.”
“Our son,” Alana agreed, crying now too.
They stayed like that—three of them, a strange little family—until the midwife cleared her throat.
“You need to rest, Señora. And this little one needs to eat. Let’s get him latched.”
The next hour was awkward and painful and wonderful—learning to nurse, the baby figuring out how to latch, Mia’s body producing milk for the first time.
But eventually, he was feeding contentedly, and Mia was tucked into bed with her son in her arms, and Alana curled beside them both.
“What will you name him?” Alana asked softly.
Mia had thought about this for months. Had discussed it with Alana late at night when they couldn’t sleep.
“Rafael,” she said. “After my grandfather. Rafael Lian Miraflores.”
“It’s perfect,” Alana whispered. “He’s perfect.”
They dozed together—Mia exhausted from labor, Alana exhausted from supporting her, and baby Rafael sleeping the sleep of the newly born.
And for a few hours, the world was perfect and simple and safe.
The Second Birth
Two weeks later, Alana’s labor started.
She woke Mia at midnight, face pale, one hand pressed to her belly.
“It’s starting,” she said quietly.
Mia sat up immediately, still sore from her own birth but focused entirely on Alana now.
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”
“I’ll get the midwife. You stay here.”
“Mia—” Alana’s voice was small, frightened. “What if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing will go wrong.” Mia cupped her face. “You’re going to be fine. I’m going to be with you every second. Just like you were with me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The midwife came quickly, examined Alana, and frowned.
“The baby’s positioned wrong,” she said. “Breech. Feet first.”
Mia’s blood went cold. Breech births were dangerous. Often fatal.
“Can you turn him?” she asked.
“I can try.”
What followed was excruciating. The midwife’s hands on Alana’s belly, pushing, manipulating, trying to turn the baby into the correct position. Alana screaming in pain, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry,” the midwife kept saying. “I’m sorry, but we have to—”
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, she sat back.
“I got him. He’s head-down now. But the labor will be hard. Longer than it should be. And there’s risk of—”
“Just help her,” Mia interrupted. “Whatever it takes. Save them both.”
The labor lasted sixteen hours.
Longer than Mia’s. Harder. More dangerous.
There were moments when Mia was certain they were going to lose Alana. Moments when the bleeding seemed too heavy, when Alana’s screams turned to whimpers of exhaustion, when the midwife’s face grew grim.
But Alana kept fighting.
And finally—finally—the baby came.
Another boy. Smaller than Rafael had been. Blue for a terrifying moment before the midwife cleared his airway and he gasped, coughed, and started crying.
“He’s alive,” the midwife said, sounding relieved. “Small, but breathing. He’ll need extra care, but he’s alive.”
She placed him on Alana’s chest. Alana barely had the strength to hold him, but she managed, one arm curling protectively around her son.
“Hello,” she whispered, voice hoarse from screaming. “Hello, little one.”
The baby—tiny, fragile, but definitely alive—nuzzled against her, already seeking food.
Mia sat beside them, one hand on Alana’s shoulder, watching this woman she loved hold the child she’d nearly died to bring into the world.
“What will you name him?” Mia asked.
Alana looked down at her son. At his tiny face, his dark hair, his perfect little hands.
“Diego,” she said finally. “After my brother. Diego Reyes.”
Not Miraflores. Reyes. Alana’s family name.
A small rebellion. A claim of ownership. This child was hers, regardless of what the law said about his father.
“Diego Reyes,” Mia repeated. “It’s perfect.”
The midwife finished her work—cleaning Alana, checking the bleeding, making sure everything was as it should be.
“She needs rest,” the midwife said quietly to Mia. “Lots of rest. The birth was hard. She’ll be weak for weeks.”
“I’ll make sure she has everything she needs,” Mia promised.
When the midwife left, Mia climbed carefully into the bed beside Alana and baby Diego.
“You did it,” she whispered. “You survived. He survived. You’re both here.”
“I thought I was going to die,” Alana said, voice shaking. “There were moments when I thought—”
“But you didn’t. You’re here. He’s here. We’re all here.”
Alana turned her head, kissed Mia softly. “Thank you. For staying. For not leaving me.”
“Never,” Mia promised. “I’ll never leave you.”
They lay together—two women, two babies, a family cobbled together from tragedy and determination and love.
And despite everything—the deaths, the violence, the complicated circumstances of these children’s conception—they were happy.
Genuinely, surprisingly happy.
Early Days
The first months were exhausting.
Two newborns, both needing to be fed every few hours. Both crying at unpredictable times. Both requiring constant care and attention.
But Mia and Alana worked as a team.
They’d set up a nursery in Mia’s chambers—two cradles side by side, one for Rafael, one for Diego. They took turns with night feedings, with diaper changes, with soothing fussy babies.
And slowly, a routine emerged.
Rafael was bigger, easier. He latched well, slept relatively well, cried only when genuinely uncomfortable.
Diego was smaller, more difficult. He struggled to latch, needed extra feeding time, was fussier and more demanding.
But both women loved both boys equally.
Mia nursed Rafael primarily, but also helped with Diego when Alana was exhausted. Alana nursed Diego, but took Rafael when Mia needed rest.
They were both mothers to both children. Just as they’d promised.
Felipe, to his credit, kept his distance. He understood that his role was not in the nursery. He managed the fields, attended social functions, maintained appearances.
And in return, the women made sure he lived comfortably, was treated with respect by the household, and had everything he needed.
The arrangement worked.
Five Years Later
Rafael was five years old, tall for his age, serious and thoughtful like his mother.
Diego was five years old, smaller and quicker, with a mischievous streak that kept everyone on their toes.
They were brothers in every way that mattered.