Just as Sarah finished her breathless description of the forbidden act in the laundry room, and before the girls could act on Linda’s trance-like state, Linda snapped back to reality, but only marginally. The sheer force of the nymphomania triggered by the narrative left her utterly shattered, robbing her of her anger and control.

Linda's eyes snap open, wide and glazed, staring past her daughters. She yanks her hand away from her shorts as if burned and scrambles backward on the couch, shaking uncontrollably. She doesn't see Sarah or Suzy; she sees the absolute destruction of her life.

"Get away from me," she whispers, her voice raw, then it rises to a choked scream. "I can’t do this!"

Suzy and Sarah recoil, terrified by the sudden shift.

"Mom, what is it?" Sarah asks, her tone instantly moving from seductive to panicked. "It was just a story about the laundry machine; we were just—"

"No, you don't understand," Linda cuts her off, clutching her head. Tears stream down her face, and her chest heaves with uncontrolled sobs. Her years of isolation and control have finally broken. "I can’t be near you right now. I can’t... I can't even look at you without..." She trails off, unable to voice the compulsion.

She finally forces herself to look at them, her eyes full of profound shame and desperation. "I need you to know... I have a sickness. It's been with me forever. I have to fight it every second. It's why I've always been so strict, why I push you away sometimes. It's called nymphomania."

Linda collapses into a desperate, wracking sob. "You have no idea how badly I want what you were describing. I was there, on that washing machine, beside you. That's my secret. That's my curse. And you almost... you almost broke me."

Instead of recoiling in horror or disgust, Sarah and Suzy exchange a swift, curious look. The clinical word "sickness" was overshadowed by the raw desperation, the tears, and the explicit admission of being in the fantasy.

"Nymphomania," Sarah whispers the word, tasting it.

"A curse?" Suzy asks, a strange, excited energy replacing her fear. She sits forward again, leaning toward her mother's exposed vulnerability. "But... what does that mean, exactly? Like, what does it feel like when you're fighting it?"

"We thought it was just fun, Mom," Sarah says, her voice now a low, conspiratorial murmur. "But if it makes you this crazy... it must be incredible. Tell us about it. Tell us what you see when you close your eyes. Tell us about your first time."

The question—so innocently direct—pierced Linda's remaining defenses. She saw in their eager faces not judgment, but kinship. A dark, insidious part of her condition whispered that this was safe, this was permission. The lust, barely held back, began to claw its way to the surface, lending her voice a sudden, husky timbre.

Linda took a slow, deep breath, her eyes losing their focus on the room and retreating inward. The clinical fear was replaced by a sultry, dangerous nostalgia. Her hand, trembling just moments ago, now drifted back to her crotch, unconsciously rubbing the thin fabric of her shorts.

"No, not the washing machine," she murmured, her voice now a low, breathy confession, thick with emerging arousal. "It was... the summer I turned sixteen. My parents were away, and I was reading a magazine..."

She paused, the memory flooding her body, making her breath hitch. Sarah and Suzy crept closer, their hips touching the couch, leaning in as if sharing a sacred secret.

"I found a picture," Linda continued, her eyelids fluttering shut. "A woman, utterly undone by pleasure. I didn't know what I was looking at, but suddenly, the air felt thick and heavy. I was hot, so hot, and something started twitching deep inside me."

Linda leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, her body already responding to the vivid recollection. "I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and got into the shower. The water was scalding, but I needed the heat. I pressed myself against the cool, tiled wall, the spray hitting me full on. I didn't know what to do, but my body did. My fingers... they were shaking, clumsy... and I fumbled. I found the place—the tiny, hard nub—and when I touched it, I heard myself make a sound I didn't recognize. A small, helpless gasp."

Her fingers dug into her thigh, squeezing her flesh. The lust in her voice was now palpable, intoxicating in the silent room.

"It wasn't gentle," Linda confessed, her voice thick and wet. "I rubbed and I pressed, harder and faster. I needed the friction, the sting. I started panting like an animal. My hips ground against the wall, seeking that tearing, sharp release."

Linda's eyes remained tightly shut, fully immersed in the sensory memory.

"And then... the water stopped feeling hot. Everything went red. It was a volcanic heat erupting from my center, spreading through my stomach, my chest, my throat. I couldn't stop. I felt my body arch backward against the tiles, my head hitting the wall as a million tiny, blinding flashes went off behind my eyelids."

Linda was now breathing in gasps and shudders, the memory of her first orgasm triggering an immediate, mirrored physical response. Her legs shifted, rubbing together restlessly.

"It was a seizure of pure, raw need," she whispered, her voice cracking with the strain of present-day arousal. "Every single muscle—my jaw, my hands, my stomach—was rigid, trembling, aching. I was shuddering violently, tears mixing with the water and the sweat. And when it finally broke... it wasn't a gentle wave. It was a convulsing, shattering explosion that left me weeping and utterly empty. And the moment it was over, I wanted it again. I wanted it immediately, harder, deeper. That's the sickness. That's the monster I try to hide."

Sarah and Suzy were motionless, their young bodies vibrating with the sudden, powerful arousal fueled by their mother's explicit language. They looked at the visible proof of their mother's lust—the flushed skin, the erratic breathing, the hand rubbing her at fabric covered crotch — and realized that the feeling they found in the laundry room was merely the surface of something infinitely more intense. The confession had not repelled them; it had ignited them. They looked at their mother, now fully exposed, and saw not a sick woman, but a master guide to the dark terrain of overwhelming, forbidden pleasure.