Sir Peter & Andrew Delta – Fired Up: Costa del Sol
In the new episode of Fired Up: Costa del Sol, Sir Peter and Andrew Delta have great sex on a balcony overlooking the beautiful coast. Andrew’s bare feet sink into the blistering sand of Marbella’s coastline, his neon-green Speedo clinging to the sweat-slick curve of his ass as he struts past a row of oiled-up locals. The Mediterranean glare sharpens every ripple of his lean torso, but his mirrored aviators linger lower–locked onto the mythic outline tenting Sir Peter’s navy swim trunks. The man’s sprawled across a striped lounge chair, biceps flexed behind his head, uncut bulge straining fabric thin as cellophane. Andrew bites his lip. Christ, they don’t make ’em like that in Milwaukee.
He “trips” applying sunscreen, palm grazing Sir Peter’s thigh. “Oops. American clumsiness,” Andrew drawls, fingers lingering on the hot, hairy skin. Sir Peter’s accent drips posh drawl when he laughs. “Careful, mate. That’s a Grade II Listed Monument you’re fondling.”
Andrew drops his voice. “Bet it’s heritage I could worship.”
Five minutes later, they’re in a private villa’s penthouse suite overlooking the sea. Sir Peter pins Andrew against the balcony railing, waves crashing three stories below. “Let’s test that enthusiasm,” he growls, shoving Andrew’s Speedo to his ankles. The salty breeze hits Andrew’s exposed hole as Sir Peter spits thickly between his cheeks. “Eyes on the view, Yank.”
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Andrew grips the wrought iron, choking when Sir Peter’s tongue spears him open–rough, hungry laps that have him bouncing back for more. “Fucking animal–” he gasps, arching as those meaty hands lift him clean off the tiles. Dangling mid-air, legs splayed for the paparazzi telephoto lenses half a mile downshore, Andrew’s hole winks obscenely. Sir Peter doesn’t bother with lube, stretching him on two spit-slick fingers. “Scream and someone’ll think we’re murdering you.”
“Do it,” Andrew snarls.
Sir Peter rams home in one thrust, foreskin dragging over Andrew’s rim. “Like splitting firewood,” he grunts, hammering into the clenching heat. Andrew’s cock slaps his stomach with each drive, precum smearing the railing. Below, tourists snap sunset selfies unaware of the fuck show above.
“Touch yourself,” Sir Peter orders, slapping Andrew’s abused hole when he hesitates. Andrew fists his dripping shaft, moans turning jagged as his prostate gets bulldozed. “Gonna paint this balcony,” he warns, but Sir Peter yanks his hair back. “You’ll cum when I tell you.”
Sir Peter’s gutting thrusts lift Andrew’s toes off the ground. When release finally tears through him, Andrew’s roar echoes across the cove, ropes of cum arcing into the wind. Sir Peter follows with a guttural curse, pumping Andrew full till it leaks down his trembling thighs.
