It was not distress. It was the sound of a body that had discovered it could achieve low-grade arousal purely through the accumulated memory of what had been done to it, and was doing so passively, the way a tuning fork rings after the mallet is gone.
Xiao—the maid, not the bride, the distinction that required specifying—was the flat-on-earth contributor. She lay face-down with her considerable chest pressed to the ground and her hips slightly elevated in the way of someone who had, at some point, been positioned for a specific purpose and had simply not been repositioned after.
Her large breasts, visible from the side in their squashed, overflowing weight, had left an impression in the soft earth beneath her.
Both her holes were full in the way that was only apparent when she shifted, which she did occasionally—a small, involuntary motion of her hips—and each shift produced a wet sound and a suppressed "Ahn~" that she immediately muffled against her own arm.
