Kate
Copyright© 2026 by Drabbles
Chapter 1: The Truth Hurts
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Truth Hurts - What happens when you try to defend the wrong person? How do you recover when everything you wanted to believe was wrong? One woman's journey.
Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/Fa Fa/Fa Ma/Ma Drunk/Drugged Rape BiSexual Incest Mother Son BDSM Polygamy/Polyamory Swinging AI Generated
The blood on Timmy’s face had dried to a rust-brown crust by the time Kate heard his key fumbling in the lock. She’d been watching television—some mindless reality show she couldn’t even name—when the sound made her sit up straight on the couch, her wine glass nearly tipping.
“Timmy?”
The door swung open and her son stumbled inside, and Kate’s heart dropped into her stomach like a stone into dark water.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, baby, what happened?”
His left eye was swollen nearly shut, purple and grotesque. His lip was split, still seeping. His shirt—that nice button-down she’d bought him for Christmas—was torn at the collar, spotted with blood. He looked at her with his one good eye, and then his face crumpled like a child’s.
“Mom,” he choked out, and then he was sobbing.
Kate rushed to him, her maternal instincts obliterating everything else. She guided him to the couch, her hands fluttering over him, afraid to touch, afraid not to. “Who did this? Timmy, who did this to you?”
“This guy—” He winced as she dabbed at his lip with a tissue. “This fucking guy Matthew. He just—he has it out for me, Mom. I don’t even know why. He just started beating on me outside the bar, and I didn’t do anything, I swear I didn’t do anything—”
The tears came harder, and Kate pulled him against her shoulder the way she had when he was small, when scraped knees and hurt feelings were the worst things in the world. But he wasn’t small anymore. He was twenty-five, and someone had hurt him, had beaten her baby, and the rage that bloomed in her chest was white-hot and righteous.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Let me clean you up.”
She brought the first aid kit from the bathroom, worked in silence while Timmy sniffled and occasionally hissed in pain. With each dab of antiseptic, each butterfly bandage she applied, her anger grew. What kind of animal did this? What kind of coward?
“Matthew who?” she asked quietly.
“Matthew Reeves. Mom, just leave it. I don’t want more trouble.”
But Kate was already thinking, already planning. She helped Timmy to his room, made sure he took some ibuprofen, and then she lay awake in her own bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing.
The next morning, after Timmy had left for work—moving gingerly, his face a canvas of bruises—Kate opened her laptop. It took less than twenty minutes to find Matthew Reeves through Timmy’s Facebook friends list. The profile was semi-public: a young man with dark hair and an easy smile, photos of him at the gym, at parties, with a pretty blonde girl who must be the girlfriend. His address was listed on a tagged post from three weeks ago: “New place! Come by for the housewarming.”
Kate wrote it down.
She looked at herself in the mirror before she left. Forty-two years old, and she looked it. The divorce had been three years ago, and she’d let herself go in small ways that had accumulated into something larger. Her hair needed a cut. She wore no makeup. The jeans and sweater she pulled on were comfortable but shapeless. She didn’t care. This wasn’t about her.
The drive across town took thirty minutes. Matthew’s apartment was in a newer complex near the university, all clean lines and landscaped courtyards. Kate’s hands shook as she climbed the stairs to unit ---B.
She pounded on the door.
Waited.
Pounded again.
The door swung open, and Kate’s prepared tirade died in her throat.
The young man standing before her was not what she’d expected. He was tall—six-one, maybe six-two—with broad shoulders and the kind of lean, athletic build that came from actual work, not just vanity. He wore gray sweatpants and a fitted white t-shirt, and his dark hair was still damp, like he’d just showered. He was handsome in a way that was almost unfair, with strong features and dark eyes that looked at her with polite confusion.
“Can I help you?”
Kate found her voice. “Are you Matthew Reeves?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m Kate Morrison. Timmy Morrison’s mother.” She watched his expression change, saw recognition and something else—something harder—flash across his face. “And I want to know why the hell you beat up my son.”
Matthew’s jaw tightened. He glanced past her, down the hallway, then stepped back. “You should come inside.”
“I don’t think—”
“Please. Come inside. There are things you need to know.”
Something in his voice made her comply. She stepped into the apartment, hyper-aware of him closing the door behind her, of the space suddenly feeling smaller. The apartment was neat, masculine, with weights in one corner and textbooks stacked on the coffee table.
Matthew gestured to the couch. “Sit. Please.”
Kate remained standing. “I don’t want to sit. I want to know why you attacked my son.”
“I didn’t attack him.” Matthew’s voice was calm, measured. “I defended someone. There’s a difference.”
“He said you just started beating on him for no reason—”
“Mrs. Morrison.” Matthew held up a hand. “Your son tried to drug my girlfriend.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Kate felt something cold slide down her spine.
“That’s—that’s ridiculous. Timmy would never—”
“I have video.”
Matthew pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, then held it out to her. Kate didn’t want to take it. Didn’t want to look. But her hand reached out anyway, and then she was watching footage from what looked like a party, the camera angle from across a room.
There was Timmy, leaning against a kitchen counter, talking to a pretty blonde girl—the same one from Matthew’s photos. The girl turned away for a moment, laughing at something someone else said, and Timmy’s hand moved with practiced quickness, pulling something from his pocket, tipping it toward her red Solo cup.
“No,” Kate whispered.
“Keep watching.”
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