Disarmed

I saw the corridor and mistook it for the one I was looking for. I know what you're going to say. I should have been more alert; yes. And yes, looking back, the paint on the wood was a dirtier brown, the light-bulb slightly too low and shining a little too brightly; and the orange-painted gentleman's hat-stand with its short, thin, pegs holding up an absence of hats should not have been there. The corridor opened out into a narrow circle of doors. I opened the door by mistake and burst in. At my feet, a powerful, fleshy woman, face-downwards, lay across the legs of a man, holding him by the wrists and pinning his arms to a blue-striped mattress. Between her buttocks sprouted a tuft of coarse black hairs. I couldn't see the expression on her face: she pressed her cheek firmly against his belly. He was a hollow-cheeked man with a prominent forehead, a jaw-bone which was clearly outlined and a little forward, and distended nostrils. I thought his body wasted - those prominent shoulder-bones; the tendons in his neck clearly traceable .  .  .  He lay on his back, one knee bent, his foot pressed against the inside of his thigh - unable to move. The muscles across the back of the woman were trembling. There were touches of blue in the pallor of her flesh. As I watched her holding the man down, her full, fat, buttocks rose once, sharply then sank back again. Realising that something private was occuring, I felt embarassed; as if I had stumbled upon acquaintances copulating on the floor. Making my apologies profuse, I walked backwards clasping my hands together, left the room and closed the door behind me. I do not remember which expression the face of the man wore. I gave it scant attention. But there could have been one of two expressions etched there (or possibly a mixture of them both). Pinned down, was it anger disfiguring the man's face? Or was it a pleasant dawning? After standing thoughtful for a while, I name the episode 'Disarmed' and now retreat along the brown-painted corridor.