The Real Stella Smock

This Is Why I Don't Spend Time With My Brother

"Where's mom and Peyton?" Brandon asks as he walks downstairs.

"Oh. The Miller's flight landed. They're gonna pick them up."

"Oh." He says in a bored tone.

I sigh as I realize nothing changed.

"Get me something to snack on por favor!" I yell to Brandon who's in the kitchen.

"No!" He yells back.

I sigh as I get up and walk to the kitchen.

"OhmyGod!" I exclaim as I see him holding a jar of nutella in his hand.

"Fuck." He says.

"We have nutella?!" I ask.

"No." He says.

But I see i-"

"No you don't."

"Yeah I do. It's right there."

"No. Your mind is playing tricks on you. You're going through nutella withdrawal." I laugh as I walk towards him.

I stick my finger in the nutella and suck it off.

"Did you just touch my nutella?" He asks.

"Whatcha gonna do about it?" I ask him mockingly.

Brandon grabs the gray duct tape off the top of the fridge.

"What are you gonna do?" I ask him as he turns to me smiling.

Brandon tackles me to the floor and sits on me.

"Brandon get off me! You're heavy!" I yell while flailing my limbs.

He ignores me as he easily grips both of my wrists with one hand. Why did he have to do p90x?

Brandon puts tape on my right wrist and tightly wraps it around both my wrists.

"Brandon!" I whine. 

He shushes me as he turns around, grips my legs together and ties my ankles together. I ball my hands into fists and hit them repeatedly against his really muscular back.

"Really Stella?" Brandon asks while he gets up and turns to me.

"Brandon, I'm gonna kill you!" I tell him as I pull myself up into a sitting position.

"Come on, let's have a little fun. Just like old times." Brandon tells me smiling.

"Brandon, no." I tell him, trying not to smile at his infectious smile.

But he doesn't listen to me as he picks me up and swings me over his shoulder.

"Brandon!" I yell as he takes us upstairs.

"That's my name." He says as if this is a normal everyday thing.

"Brandon what are you d- noooo. Not my room." I say starting to laugh.

"Yes." He says.

He sits me down at my computer chair by my desk and not a second later he's taping my thighs to the bottom of the chair seat.

"I hate you. IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou-"

I keep chanting this as Brandon tapes my ankles to the plastic cylinders at the bottom of the chair, but above the wheels. He just has this smile plastered on his face the whole time.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" I ask as he tapes my upper body to the back of the chair.

He just nods in agreement.