Masters of Miraflores
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9: Learning Each Other
Historical Sex Story: Chapter 9: Learning Each Other - 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 Morning After
Mia woke slowly, awareness returning in stages.
First: warmth. The familiar weight of another body pressed against hers.
Second: scent. Jasmine and something else—skin, hair, the faint sweetness of last night’s wine still clinging to both of them.
Third: memory. Oh. Oh.
They’d kissed. They’d confessed. They’d fallen asleep tangled together like lovers because that’s what they were now.
Lovers.
Her eyes opened. Early morning light filtered through the capiz shells, turning everything amber and gold. Alana was still asleep, face peaceful, one arm draped across Mia’s waist, their legs intertwined beneath the sheets.
Mia lay very still, hardly breathing, just watching her.
In sleep, Alana looked impossibly young. The careful servant’s mask was gone, leaving only a girl barely sixteen, exhausted and hopeful and beautiful in the soft light.
I love her, Mia thought. Not as revelation—she’d known it for weeks. But as simple fact. As certainty.
I love her, and she loves me, and we kissed last night, and nothing will ever be the same.
The thought should have terrified her.
Instead, she felt only peace.
Alana stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked confused—disoriented by waking in Mia’s bed, in Mia’s arms.
Then memory returned. Her eyes widened.
“We—” she started.
“Yes,” Mia confirmed softly. “We did.”
“And you—”
“Don’t regret it. Not even a little.” Mia’s hand came up, traced the line of Alana’s jaw. “Do you?”
Alana searched her face. Whatever she saw there made her relax, made her smile.
“Never,” she whispered.
They lay like that for a long moment, just looking at each other in the early light. Everything felt different now. The same room, the same bed, but transformed by what they’d admitted, what they’d done.
“I should go,” Alana said, though she made no move to leave. “Before the servants come. Before—”
“Stay,” Mia interrupted. “Just a few more minutes. Please.”
So Alana stayed.
Mia shifted closer, pressing their foreheads together. Their noses touched. Their breath mingled.
“Can I kiss you?” Mia asked. “Sober this time? In the morning light? To prove last night was real?”
“Yes.”
The kiss was soft. Sweet. Nothing like the urgent, wine-fueled kisses of last night—those had been desperate, hungry, weeks of wanting finally unleashed.
This was tender. A promise. A choice made in full awareness, no liquid courage needed.
When they pulled apart, both were smiling.
“Still real,” Mia murmured.
“Very real,” Alana agreed.
Another kiss. Then another. Gentle, exploring, taking their time.
Alana’s hand slid from Mia’s waist to her hip, fingers spreading across the curve there. Mia made a small sound—surprise and pleasure mixed—and Alana smiled against her mouth.
“You like that,” Alana observed.
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
Mia’s own hands began to wander—cautious, curious. Alana’s shoulder. The dip of her waist. The small of her back. Mapping her body through the thin nightgown, learning the geography of her.
They kissed and touched until both were breathing harder, until the air between them grew charged with want.
Then Alana pulled back, laughing softly.
“We have to stop,” she said, voice unsteady.
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t, I won’t be able to stop. And we have to get dressed. Face the day. Pretend to be normal.”
“I don’t want to pretend,” Mia said, but she was smiling. “I want to stay here with you all day.”
“So do I. But—”
A sharp knock at the door made them both freeze.
“Señora?” A servant’s voice. “Shall I bring your morning coffee?”
Mia and Alana looked at each other, eyes wide.
“Yes, thank you!” Mia called back, voice admirably steady. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“Of course, Señora.”
Footsteps retreated.
They exhaled simultaneously, then started laughing—quiet, breathless laughter of people who’d almost been caught.
“Close,” Alana whispered.
“Too close.” Mia kissed her once more, quick and sweet. “Go. Get dressed in your room. We’ll face breakfast like nothing’s changed.”
“Everything’s changed,” Alana said.
“I know. But no one else can know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Alana’s face grew serious. “You understand what this means? What we’re risking?”
“I understand. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And you still want this? Want me?”
“More than anything,” Alana said fiercely. “But Mia, if we’re caught—if anyone finds out—”
“Then we’ll deal with it. Together.” Mia cupped her face. “But we won’t be caught. We’ll be careful. Discreet. In public, nothing changes. In private—” She kissed her softly. “In private, we’re ours.”
Alana nodded. “Ours.”
She slipped from the bed, adjusted her nightgown, crossed to the connecting door. At the threshold, she paused, looked back.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
Mia lay back against the pillows, hand pressed to her chest where her heart hammered.
We’re really doing this. We’re really in love. We’re really lovers now.
The thought made her smile.
Then she rose to face the day, to put on the mask of dutiful wife, to pretend nothing had changed.
Even though everything had.
Breakfast – The First Test
The dining room felt different this morning.
Or perhaps it was just Mia who felt different—hyperaware of every glance, every movement, terrified that her face would give her away.
Don Rodrigo sat at the head of the table, reading correspondence, his presence a dark weight. Mateo sat to his right, discussing something about the fields—worker schedules, irrigation, the usual concerns.
Mia took her seat to Don Rodrigo’s left. Alana moved behind her to pour coffee, and when their fingers brushed—the briefest contact as the cup was set down—Mia felt it like a shock of electricity.
She forced herself not to react. Kept her face composed. Neutral.
“Thank you, Alana,” she said evenly.
“Of course, Señora.”
Alana moved to serve Don Rodrigo. Mia watched her from the corner of her eye—the graceful movements, the careful downcast gaze, the perfect performance of servitude.
No one would ever guess that hours ago, they’d been tangled together in bed, confessing love, kissing until they couldn’t breathe.
The thought made Mia’s cheeks warm. She took a sip of coffee to hide it.
Mateo barely glanced at either of them. He was absorbed in his conversation with his father, gesturing as he explained some issue with the cane harvest.
Under the table, Mia felt something brush against her foot.
She glanced up sharply.
Alana was on the other side of the table now, serving bread, face perfectly innocent. But her foot—her bare foot, she must have slipped off her shoe—was pressed against Mia’s ankle.
A deliberate touch. A secret contact.
You’re playing with fire, Mia thought. But she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she shifted slightly, pressing back. Acknowledgment. I feel you too.
Alana’s lips quirked—the tiniest smile, gone in an instant.
“More coffee, Don Rodrigo?” she asked politely.
“No.”
She moved away, retrieving her shoe, the moment of contact broken.
Mia’s heart was racing. That had been reckless. Dangerous. If anyone had noticed—if Don Rodrigo had looked down at the wrong moment—
But he hadn’t. And the thrill of it—the secret touch, the risk, the knowledge that they were lovers and no one knew—sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine.
“Mia.”
She startled. Mateo was looking at her now.
“Yes?”
“I asked if you had any concerns about the household budget this month.”
“Oh. No. Alana has it well in hand. The accounts are balanced.” She glanced at Alana, who had resumed her position against the wall, hands folded, waiting to serve. “She’s very thorough.”
“Good.” Mateo returned his attention to his plate. “Father and I will be in the fields most of the day. Don’t wait dinner if we’re late.”
“Of course.”
The meal continued. Mia ate mechanically, tasting nothing, hyperaware of Alana’s presence across the room.
Every time their eyes met—quick glances, nothing obvious—she felt the pull of it. The wanting. The knowledge that later, when the house was quiet, they’d find each other again.
Don Rodrigo finished his coffee, stood. “I have correspondence to attend to.”
He left without acknowledging either woman.
Mateo lingered a moment longer, draining his cup. “I may stay in the fields overnight. There’s concern about flooding in the lower section. I want to supervise the drainage work personally.”
“All right,” Mia said. Then, because it would seem strange not to ask: “Be safe.”
“Always.” He stood, moved to the door. Paused. Turned back. “You two seem in good spirits this morning.”
Mia’s blood ran cold.
“Do we?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.
“You’re both smiling. It’s...” He seemed to search for words. “Pleasant. To see you getting along so well.”
“We’re friends,” Mia said simply. “Why wouldn’t we get along?”
“No reason. It’s just unusual.” He shrugged. “Most women in your position would hate each other.”
“We’re not most women,” Alana said quietly.
Mateo looked between them, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded.
“Good. Keep it that way. A peaceful household is a productive one.”
Then he was gone.
The moment the door closed behind him, Mia exhaled.
Alana crossed to her immediately, began clearing plates.
“That was close,” she murmured, voice barely audible.
“Too close.” Mia’s hand came up, as if to touch her, then fell back to the table. Not safe. Not here. Servants could enter at any moment.
“Tonight?” Alana asked softly.
“If he’s really staying in the fields, yes. Tonight.”
Their eyes met. Held.
The wanting was palpable—a living thing between them.
“I should finish clearing,” Alana said reluctantly.
“Yes. And I have correspondence to review.”
Neither moved.
Then Mia forced herself to stand, to step away, to put proper distance between them.
“This afternoon,” she said. “Come to the sitting room. We’ll go over the household accounts together.”
Code for: I need to see you. Touch you. Kiss you.
“Of course, Señora,” Alana said. The perfect servant’s response.
But her eyes said: Yes. I need that too.
Stolen Afternoon
The house was quiet in the afternoon heat. Don Rodrigo was in his study. Mateo was indeed in the fields. The servants were attending to their various tasks, giving the mistress and her lady-in-waiting privacy for household business.
Mia sat at the small desk in her sitting room, ledgers spread before her, reviewing nothing. Just waiting.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.