My Fertile Secret Ch. 06

My hand is still clenched into a fist, and the object I picked up is leaving a painful welt in the palm of my hand. I relax my hand and look at the silver key. It's the key to the little box where my husband keeps the car keys -- the better to keep me from driving off.

Not anymore.

***

I wake up at half-past five, nestled between my sleeping rapist and my snoozing husband. They didn't fuck me again that night, and they both had plenty of alcohol the previous night, so with any luck, they'll still be sleeping off their hangovers.

Today is a Saturday, but this morning is going to be the most tense morning I've experienced since the night I was raped. I can't wait another day. I have to get out of here.

As stealthily as I can, I slide under the covers and slip my feet out of the bottom end of the bed before sliding my whole body out onto the carpet. Naked and nervous, I put on some clothes and retrieve my wallet and phone from their hiding place. There are so many things to do in the next hour, and so many things could go wrong.

First, I tiptoe to the computer room where the computer was left on all night. I'm so relieved neither man noticed the little green light from the computer's power button, and I switch the screen back on. The sudden brightness from the computer monitor blinds me, and it takes a few moments before my eyes can adjust.

Once my eyes have recovered, they still ache from the abrupt light adjustment, but I open up a command line box and enter the code to activate the software I installed last night. Then I unplug the hard drive and stuff it in my back pocket -- even though I don't need it anymore.

Everything on the computer has been uploaded to a secure cloud server, and during one of my late-night feeding sessions with my baby son, I used the spyware app on my phone to change the password and login details of the cloud server account.

My husband no longer has blackmail leverage over me, which means if I get caught now, he'll probably get my rapist to beat it out of me. For all his sick fantasies and treatment of me, he's too much of a beta male loser to ever lay a violent hand on me -- which leads me to the awkward idea that getting violent with a woman is somehow 'manly', which it's not.

I snap out of my mental distraction and get moving again. Another progress bar has appeared on the computer screen, deleting everything on the computer's own hard drive along with any backups before it initiates a factory reset. I switch the screen off to buy myself some more time and scurry downstairs to continue with my escape plan.

It's still dark outside, and it's equally dark in the house. My whole body is trembling with fear that the slightest noise might rouse the two men from their slumber and lead them to discover my escape attempt. I do my best to calm myself with the reminder that I still have time to bring my plan to fruition. I just need to stay focused and keep moving.

In the downstairs bathroom, I quickly relieve myself and then wash and dry my hands before retrieving the tiny key from its hiding place behind the toilet. It slipped out of my husband's pocket while he and my rapist were tag-teaming me last night, and once he wakes up, it won't be long before he realizes that it's missing.

That's why I have to escape today.

With the key in hand, I cross the front room, glowering at the two not-so-hidden cameras, and reach the door that leads into the garage. It locks from the inside and requires a house key to open from the garage side, so I prop it open with a paint can. Then I scurry over to the safety deposit box at the back.

My fingers are trembling so much that I drop the key. I drop to my knees in a panic as I scramble to retrieve it. Once it's in my hand again, I squeeze it tight and almost jam it into the keyhole. I release another breath of relief when the lock clicks and the lid pops open. Inside are the two sets of car keys...and the taser.

The pain of the two electrified prongs stung almost as badly as my depraved husband's betrayal, and I would dearly love to press the prongs of the taser against his nuts and activate it. It would also make an excellent weapon in case one or both men wake up and catch me escaping.

I grab the keys to the Mitsubishi SUV and stuff them in my pocket. The Honda Civic is nice, but I prefer the Mitsubishi. Then I grab the taser and stuff it in my other pocket. I won't be able to carry much else on my person, and I still have a lot more to do.

I unlock the Mitsubishi and open the doors on one side, then I open the garage entrance and slip back into the house. The next part is the most complicated part of the plan: multiple round trips up and down the stairs to retrieve the three most precious things in my life.

It's nearly six in the morning, and the first light of dawn is starting to peek through the closed curtains. I'm shaking with fear and anticipation as I scurry up the steps, struggling to balance speed and urgency with caution and stealth.

The master bedroom is straight ahead at the top of the steps, but I turn right and shuffle hastily to the opposite end of the landing where a bright pink door marks my daughters' bedroom. The girls can sleep for hours and hours, and it's lucky that they're not light sleepers -- it's unnerving just how much of this insane escape plan of mine hinges on luck.

Turning the handle and opening the door as silently as I can, it's beautiful to see them sleeping so soundly in their beds. Like their younger half-brother, they're both blissfully unaware of the awful things that their mother has endured over the past few months.

If there's one good thing I can say about those two men, it's that they've gone to great lengths to ensure that the children remain in blissful ignorance about their gross business venture. What a relief it is to know that even my husband and my rapist have lines they won't cross.

With tender care, I pull back the covers of my older daughter's bed and scoop her up into my arms. She's heavy and I'm not exactly built the way my rapist is, but I manage. I have to.

It's a struggle to carry her across the landing and down the stairs without falling over or making a sound, and I'm absolutely terrified that she'll wake up and give us away. She stays asleep all the way down the stairs and across the front room to the garage entrance, where I have to use my foot to push it open and then twist sideways to get into the garage.

Having left the car doors open, I deposit her in one of the backseats and buckle her in before planting a kiss on her forehead and hurrying back to fetch her sister.

I can barely restrain myself from breaking into a run, but if I do that, the stairs will creak and the two monsters in the master bedroom will wake up. My younger daughter squirms a little in my arms but thankfully doesn't wake up as I carry her downstairs to the car and buckle her into the seat next to her sister before closing the rear passenger door.

Both cars have a baby seat installed on the shotgun passenger side, which saves us the trouble of moving one baby seat back and forth to a given parent's preferred car. It also saves me one extra step in my escape plan as I rush back upstairs for the most dangerous part of the escape.

Re-entering the master bedroom feels like re-entering the lair of a monster prepared to devour me alive if it catches me escaping. It's getting increasingly light outside, and even though it's a Saturday, I'm terrified that one of the two men will wake up early and spot me.

I tiptoe as quickly as I dare to the baby's crib and retrieve my sleeping son from his little bed. If I had more time, I would pack an extra blanket and diapers for the trip, but I don't have more time and delaying any longer will guarantee that I'm caught.

As I carry my baby to the door, the worst thing happens: he cries.

A rush of panic floods my heart as I shut the bedroom door behind and scramble downstairs as fast as I dare. The adrenaline impels me to move as fast as possible, but the rocking motions of my running disturb the baby even more and make him wail even louder.

I run across the front room, clutching my precious bundle against my chest, and throw the door to the garage open, kicking the paint can away so it will shut behind me. Then I place the baby in the baby seat and strap him in before slamming the door shut.

The baby crying wakes the girls up who now realize they aren't in their comfy beds anymore and begin to wail and panic as they think that someone is kidnapping them. I don't have time to explain right now, and I hurry around to the other side of the SUV to open the driver's door.

The garage door is still shut.

The panic overwhelms me as I want to slap myself for forgetting something so basic and yet so vital. The horrible fear that this one minor oversight will get me caught and scupper my escape plan causes me to scramble out of the car again and almost fall over on my way to hit the garage door switch.

The sound of the garage door opening coincides with the sound of the other door opening, and I spin around to see my husband standing there in disbelief.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" He exclaims.

He opens the car door and tries to unbuckle my younger daughter from her seat. The fact that my rapist won't be far behind barely registers in my mind as I spring into action. The taser is in my hand as my worthless, hateful, sick, perverted, cuckold, beta male, no-good piece of shit of a husband tries to pull my daughter out of her seat.

The two prongs connect, and ten thousand volts of electricity burn the bare skin of his neck. He screams in pain and falls to the ground, and I move in for the kill. He's still wearing pajamas, useless protection against the taser as it connects with his balls.

The scream he emits is so loud and high-pitched there's no way the neighborhood won't wake up and conclude he ought to be an opera singer instead of an accountant. It will definitely bring my rapist running, and I drop the taser and shut the car door with my younger daughter still in her seat and rush around to the driver's side again.

I slam the car door shut and empty out my pockets to retrieve the car keys, letting my phone and wallet drop to the floor. Once I have the car key in my hand, I jam it into the ignition and the dashboard lights up.

The garage door is open, and I slam my foot on the accelerator. I haven't bothered to put on my own seatbelt, and I remember my husband unbuckled my younger daughter's seatbelt, but getting out of here is my top priority as the car screeches down the driveway.

Then I swerve right onto the empty road and we're away.

The relief that sweeps over me is so overwhelming I have to force myself to stay focused on the road and not drive too quickly. My baby is bawling away, and my daughters are crying and shouting in the back, confused, and panicking about what's happening and where we're going.

"Put your seatbelts on, girls," I admonish them both, "I'll explain everything soon."

My younger daughter knows how to do it herself and does what I instruct her to do. But she continues whimpering, and I feel so horrible and guilty for causing my children such distress. I didn't even pack any clothes or toys for them in my haste to escape.

But escaping that awful home where their mother was being used as a sex slave was much more important. I'll drive to my parents' house in the next county over and we can stay there for a while until I find a new place for us to live and rebuild our lives.

But now, we're free.

To be continued...