It starts like a show: I lift, rub, and let my soft belly slap down with a deep, jiggly plop. Six minutes of pure belly worship — rolls bouncing, skin folding, gravity doing its thing. Then… I forget the camera. I shift. I stretch. I lean forward—boobs briefly filling the frame. I yawn, lie back, and breathe. You keep watching. Because even when I’m not “performing,” my belly moves with every breath, every twitch, every lazy shift. No cuts. No voice. Just me — thick, real, unaware — for nearly 25 uninterrupted minutes.