Apollo Fates Knows How To Punch An Ass

Apollo Fates—the feral fisting virtuoso usually sprawled on his back taking fists like a champion—flips the script here, proving his dominance game is just as hard when he’s the one doling out the destruction. Hairy, bearish Armando Lake, a silver-fox tycoon with an ass built for punching, becomes Apollo’s sweaty canvas in this raunchy power swap. The scene crackles with tension from the jump: Apollo, strapped into a studded leather harness that frames his torso, looms over Armando’s spreadeagled body like a predator. His meaty paws knead the older man’s hairy cheeks, spreading them wide to reveal a hole already glistening with anticipation.

Armando’s gruff moans fill the room as Apollo—part jock, part mad scientist—goes to work. First, that wicked tongue: Apollo buries his face between Armando’s cheeks, lapping at his hole with sloppy, hungry strokes that leave the daddy clawing at the sheets. “Fuck, boy—right there,” Armando growls, his corporate demeanor crumbling as Apollo’s stubble scrapes his taint. But Apollo’s just warming up. He rams his thick, uncut cock into Armando bareback, pistoning with a feral rhythm that punches guttural grunts out of the older man.

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Then comes the main event: Apollo’s fists. Slicking up his hand with an obscene squirt of lube, he teases Armando’s twitching rim with two fingers before plunging deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until his entire fist disappears into the quivering hole. Armando’s back arches off the bed, his roar shaking the walls as Apollo scissors his grip, stretching him wider. “Take it, daddy—your ass was made for this,” Apollo snarls, twisting his wrist to hit Armando’s prostate. The tycoon’s cock erupts untouched, shooting ropes across his heaving chest as Apollo milks his orgasm with relentless fist-pumps.

But Apollo’s not done. With his fist still buried in Armando’s wrecked hole, he jerks his own monstrous dick with his free hand, growling filth about how the daddy’s “greedy guts” feel around his arm. When he finally cums, it’s a volcanic eruption—thick spurts painting Armando’s hairy stomach, mixing with the older man’s own spend as they both collapse into a sweaty, shuddering heap.

This isn’t just a scene—it’s a masterclass in versatility. Apollo’s switch from bottom to top feels anarchic, electric, like watching a feral cat suddenly tame a lion. And Armando? He’s reborn here: a CEO reduced to a drooling, fist-drunk mess, his hole gaping and glazed as proof of Apollo’s savage artistry. For fans of hairy, aggressive, no-apologies filth? This one’s a holy grail.

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