Amor Patrius

Decades passed.

At first, Dad and Mom still visited every few weeks. Then the visits became every few months. Then once a year. Then they stopped coming altogether. I never found out what happened to them. Maybe they died. Maybe they simply got too old or lost interest. Either way, the only two people who had ever truly claimed me as theirs eventually disappeared from my life.

The maintenance crew changed over the years. Some retired. Some were fired. New workers came and went. The few who knew the truth about what I really was slowly left or died off. The knowledge died with them.

Eventually, there was no one left who remembered I was alive inside the statue.

The new crew treated “Amor Patrius” like any other piece of aging park equipment. They noticed the rumble feature was malfunctioning and the internal systems hadn’t been properly serviced in years. They didn’t know there was a living woman sealed inside. To them, it was just an old, complicated statue with some kind of internal plumbing that needed to be decommissioned.

One afternoon, after the rumble motors had been running on their timer for a while, I came hard from the vibrations. My body seized inside the gold cast as the orgasm tore through me. Right as it started to fade, the two maintenance workers began the work.

Through the eye screens I watched them. The park security cameras fed straight into the small displays behind the gold plates. I saw the two maintenance workers in their work clothes standing beside the sculpture, talking casually. One of them opened a panel at the base near my ass. The other one did the same near my spread legs, right by the urethra tube. They uncoiled thick hoses and connected them to the hidden ports. I could see everything clearly — the way they checked the fittings, the way one of them laughed at something the other said. They didn’t look up at my face once. They just got to work like I was a piece of equipment that needed decommissioning.

They started pumping thick, wet concrete into both holes. They didn’t stop. They kept pumping, forcing more and more concrete into my guts and bladder.

The pressure built fast. My guts cramped violently as they were packed full. My bladder swelled painfully as concrete was forced into it. They kept going, pushing more and more until there was nowhere else for it to go.

Eventually, the concrete began forcing its way upward through my system.

It traveled through my intestines and stomach, then continued rising until it reached my throat. I felt it pushing up the hollow cock still buried in my throat before finally erupting out of my mouth hole in thick, wet globs.

I watched it happen through the eye screens. The park cameras showed the thick gray concrete steadily pouring out of the pig’s mouth above me, running down the front of the gold plating. The two workers stood there watching it come out, hoses still connected, talking to each other like it was just another job. They had no idea I was inside. They didn’t know they were killing someone.

The pressure inside me kept building. I felt the concrete pushing up through my throat and out of my mouth hole. It just kept coming. I lay there sealed in gold, watching myself get buried from the inside out on the screens. For a second I tried to remember my name. It was right there, but I couldn’t reach it. Then the screens started to go dark, and I stopped trying.

They kept pumping until the concrete was flowing out in a steady stream. Only after that did they shut off the hoses, seal the access points, and walk away like they were finished with any other job.

They never knew what they had actually done.

I remained there in the middle of the park — a permanent, concrete-filled statue. The rumble feature had finally broken down for good and stopped turning on. The eerie moaning finally ended.

No one ever found out what happened to me.

I was left there forever.

Filled with concrete from the inside out.

Vibrating no more.

Entombed inside my own monument.

A couple days later, in a quiet apartment in the south of France, Richard woke up in the middle of the night.

The bedroom was dark except for the glow of his phone on the nightstand. He reached for it out of habit and unlocked the screen. The app was still open from the night before.

No vitals.

He stared at the flat lines for a long moment. Oxygen. Heart rate. Breathing. All zero. The last data spike had been recorded two days earlier — a small, ordinary orgasm triggered by the maintenance crew turning the motors on for a few hours. After that, nothing.

He looked at the screen a little longer, then slowly rolled over and nudged the woman sleeping beside him.

“Linda,” he said quietly.

She stirred. “Mmm?”

“The Amor Patrius is shut down.”

Linda was quiet for a few seconds. She didn’t sit up. She just blinked at the ceiling.

“That’s sad,” she said. Her voice was soft and mostly neutral. No real weight behind it.

Richard scrolled through the archived data on his phone. The numbers were still there.

“She had forty-eight thousand, six hundred and seventeen orgasms,” he said after a moment. “Give or take. Four to five most days. Sometimes more. Not bad.”

Linda let out a small breath that might have been a laugh. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him.

“That’s more than I’ve ever had,” she said.

Richard smiled faintly in the dark. “Yeah.”

Linda was quiet again for a beat, then she shifted closer under the covers. Her hand found his thigh.

“Maybe we should try and catch up,” she said, and there was a smile in her voice now.

Richard laughed under his breath. He set the phone face-down on the nightstand and rolled toward her. Linda met him halfway, still smiling as she pulled him on top of her. They moved together in the dark, quiet at first, then not so quiet. The sound of their breathing and soft laughter filled the room.

Outside the window, the French night was still and ordinary.