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My face feels coated, like a mask hardening as it dries, some parts tacky where more landed fresh, others already flaking lightly when I shift. A thick line of cum has settled along the curve of my bottom lip; every time I breathe through my mouth I can feel the slight resistance, almost like a second skin forming there. Some drips have started to dry at the corners of my lips and along my chin, tightening the skin underneath with an invisible pull. My tongue brushes involuntarily against the inside of my lower lip, it’s slick with leftover wetness, and faintly gritty where drying streaks are beginning to crumble away. The weight is noticeable on my cheeks too: not heavy enough to be uncomfortable but present, cooling slowly into a subtle film that catches stray strands of hair whenever I tilt my head. Down further along my jaw and throat it sits thicker in places, still damp and pooled warmly beneath the chin before soaking lazily into whatever fabric lies below. I'm not in any hurry to clean it off. The sticky sensation actually feels kind of pleasant, almost comforting, like a reminder I can wear even after he's gone. It’s grounding, keeping me still and quiet while the last bits slowly dry into place. The tackiness holds my attention, keeps me from moving too much or wiping it away impulsively. There's something deeply satisfying about knowing it will take time to scrub all this off later… that for now I just get to feel marked, claimed in this messy but honest way.