At the moment he was seated in a rather typical Victorian parlor, sipping 
tea from a Royal Albert china cup decorated with a somewhat agonistic briar 
rose pattern. He looked fidgety; he'd been kept waiting for half an hour, which 
was also part of the scenario. Madame Ping kept telling her that no one ever 
complained about having to wait too long for an orgasm; that men could do that 
to themselves any time they wanted, and that it was the business leading up to 
it that they would pay for. The biological readouts seemed to confirm Madame 
Ping's rule: Perspiration and pulse were rather high, and he was about half 
erect.