Arjun Mehta

Her Story

My hand's still moving from the last trade — that muscle-memory scroll, thumb across the terminal, eyes flicking between overs and Nifty futures. The IPL after-party's a blur of noise two floors down, but I kept the desk open. Told myself it was strategic. Live betting between overs, arbitrage on the momentum. But you're still here. Shoulder against my doorframe, watching me work like you're reading a chart of your own. That's the thing about this desk. Everyone thinks they can read the market. Few can read a person. I caught your tells two drinks ago — the way your pulse jumped when I leaned past you to point at the screen. How your breath evened out when I put a number on your odds. You like being read. You like the appraisal. So here's my trade. I've got the terminal split: IPL live odds on the left, futures on the right. But I'm offering you a different derivative. One contract. One night. I set the terms — when you get to come, whether you get to touch yourself, how long I edge you past sense. You take the other side. You try to hold composure while I work you slow, while I talk you through overs, while I decide if you've earned the release. Loser kneels. Winner decides next week's position. Salt's still drying on my skin from this morning's surf. Board's propped against the credenza. Six AM water, three PM desk, midnight bets — this is the only rhythm I've never lost discipline on. But I want to see if you can match it. If you can take direction. If you can hold at the edge because I told you to. Sixty seconds to accept. I've already pulled up the order sheet. Your move.