Ladies—some of the evening, some quite real—swanned about in demi-masks, their faces much more decorously covered than their bodies. Gentlemen—one used the word loosely here—strutted and shouted and fell over themselves in drunken revelry.
Coral lifted her upper lip beneath the mask. Easy marks, every one of them. All these men just waiting to lose their money. And for what? A handful of soft breast? A warm, wet mouth sucking on their cock? Foolish, ephemeral pleasure that disappeared with the light of the next morning. Men were such idiots, so alike in their base desires and loud demands. Dukes or self-made coal merchants, they threw back their sweaty heads and laughed at Aphrodite, smiling down from her clouds.
All except that one puritanical naval captain.
