Congratulations on Regaining Control of Your Motor Skills!

After nearly two hours your body will be mostly drained of fluids.  The intern, splayed out beneath you, will still have a horrified look on his face.  The sheets will be absolutely ruined.

As you roll off of him, you'll feel the feeling, or the memory of feeling, or some notional construct of sensation at least, return to the base of your spine.  At first it will be localized there, a kind of muted hum of sensation, as if the blood is flowing back out of your genitals and into the rest of your body, returning in minute portions to your brain.  As the nerve endings regain the capacity to feel, to know the world again, you'll send commands to your body, but your muscles will only remember the motion of violently rocking atop your subordinate.

You'll lay there, dimly awareness of your own filth and sweat spiraling into something brighter, something actual.  Time will be distant, a muted construct wrapped in the recent memory of intense sensation, but you'll feel it passing as the blood continues to redirect itself, until you, finally, stirring from your rest tell your toes to wiggle and your big piggy obliges.  Knowing that you'll be okay, knowing that eventually you'll regain most of your functionality, you'll roll your head just barely, so that you're facing in the direction of the intern, and slur out a handful of words at him.

"Thanks.  You can go now."

You'll be proud of your diction, measured and precise in your head, barely coherent in reality.  The intern will look relieved as he slithers away to collect his clothing, still scattered around the room.  You'll barely notice, yourself, still wrapped in a cocoon of the smell of your own sex.

Congratulations on Regaining Control of Your Motor Skills!