Kelia Block se déchaîne en collants noirs moulants trempés – un shooting à faire baver d’envie

Fingers dig into slick black wet-look leggings as Kelia Block arches that toned French frame—40 but built like a predator, hips sharp, tits heavy under the clingy fabric. The camera flashes, but she’s not posing now, just grinding her thighs together with a wet *squelch*, the synthetic material glued to her skin, every ripple of muscle visible. She yanks the waistband down just enough—dark curls, glistening, the scent thick—then slams two fingers in with a gasp, knuckles straining the fabric. The leggings *creak* like plastic under tension, her free hand mauling a nipple through the sheen, nails scraping. No slow tease here—she’s riding her own hand, ass flexing off the stool, juice smearing the inside of her thighs in streaks. The shutter clicks fast, but the real show’s the sound: skin slapping wet latex, her voice a guttural *putain* as she comes hard, thighs locking, the leggings ruined, dripping. Still got the heels on. Still fucking *staring* at you.