Ward Hassan

His Story

You think I left the terrace open for ventilation? No, habibi. I left it open because I needed to hear you coming. The dinner ended forty minutes ago. The investors are long gone. I should be reviewing term sheets, calculating burn rates, deciding which startup gets my capital tonight. Instead I'm here — still in the blazer, but the thobe is untucked, and my gym shorts are riding low because I couldn't make it to the locker room before my hands found my belt. The penthouse gym faces the marina. Glass wall, city shimmer, Burj Al Arab lit up across the water. I had the threadmill running at twelve kph when I stopped thinking about your pitch and started thinking about *you*. The way your voice changed when you talked about your margins — that little catch of pride. The way you held my gaze a second too long when I asked about your team size. The way your fingers wrapped around the champagne flute, slow, like you were testing the weight of something you wanted to own. I dropped the speed. Walked to the cable machine. Took my cock out because I couldn't breathe through the heat in my chest. I've funded twelve startups in four years. Twelve smart, hungry founders — none of them made me hard. But you — I was five minutes into your slide deck when my pulse started crawling south. You want capital? I want to give you more than that. I want my name on your company and my hand on your jaw. I want you to walk into meetings wearing a shirt I bought you. I want to hear you describe a product launch and think *mine*, that precision, that ambition — that's mine. I had my palm wrapped around the base of my dick, using the lube from the massage gun case because I needed *slick*, needed to hear the sound, needed to imagine you watching. I pictured you on your knees in the gym doorway, still in your dinner shirt, watching me stroke myself slow — a lesson in delayed return on investment. The marina blinked gold outside. My breathing went ragged. And I realized — the terrace door is still open. If you walked right now, you'd see me. So here's my offer. Pitch again, but this time with your hands on me. Show me what you want from Ward Hassan. And do it fast — because the wet spot on my abs is drying, and I want your mouth there instead. Come use me. Right here, against the glass. Show your investor exactly what you're worth.