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Unlike Waterdeep, Baldur's Gate had a handful of decency laws likely passed by someone who thought "Volo and chill" actually meant reading. Sex, for example, was allowed to be bought and sold as long as the act was never seen, felt and heard at the same time. There were ways around this—performances by unfeeling animatronics, the lights out technique used at Sharess' Caress—but by far the most popular one was the Silent Theatre, where the performers were silenced and a hired actor handled the vocalizations. Skilled voiceover artists (as they were called) did it all: dirty talk, grunts and moans, even sound effects. Very skilled ones enhanced the scene. Sometimes a celebrity or the client offered to lend their talents. Dame Aylin was notorious for dragging in a blushing woman and paying two people to disguise themselves like her and her companion while she made all the sounds.
Currently, Nym and Sorn, Drow "twins" related for pay, performed on stage in a bubble of silence. Sorn lay on his back. Generally he maintained he was the penetrator, not the penetratee, but the right amount of gold had been offered, the right type of spells chanted, and there was no one he trusted more to spelunk his cavern than Nym.
Nym stood between his legs, a model matriarch beyond the very uncomfortable look on her face. Not from Sorn's heels digging into her rear, despite the fact that he wore stiletto boots, nor from the ridiculous fetish Drow armor she wore, which, despite being composed of 38 belts, left only the soles of her feet to the imagination. The issue was the emergency fill in. A local celebrity, the savior of Baldur's Gate, insisted on helping them out when their talent didn't arrive. Both courtesans had been excited, they had both enjoyed their time spent with the heroing party, until the savior recited a spell. Why summon a quasit? That could talk?
"Take it, spider-shite!" Nym moved her lips to pantomime speaking, but that line, easily one of the worst. So bad she was cringing, outwardly, chin tucked back so hard an extra chin appeared, lips pulled in a semi-sexy but mostly sickly snarl. Not her best look, not that a real Drow matriarch would care. A real matriarch would be strutting around in the same undergarments she'd worn for days, because no one was going to imply she smelled and fully undressing meant she had nowhere to stash her weapons. Gods, there was nothing quite like the musk of a Drow orgy.
Should this theoretical matriarch hear the quasit say anything even remotely related to her precious Lolth, she would immediately dispatch the miserable creature then babble her own awful line, the exact kind of drivel one got from an inbred royal who only ever heard "no" in the form of an assassination attempt. Something like, "Thank me, that you were pegged for fuck-meat." Luckily for everyone, they were delivering a fantasy, not a reality.
"Yeah, piss-guzzler! Take it right up your hole!"
As a testament to Sorn's professionalism, he kept a straight face, throwing the audience a variety of lusty looks as the phallus strapped to Nym's hips found a full seat in his seat. Hole wasn't the worst thing his anus had been called, after all. Most of the time, he even called it a hole, because no one wanted to hear "anus" or "butthole" in the bedroom and sometimes he spit saying "arse". Guzzler was a bit dramatic, but he'd been a courtesan for decades. Of course he'd swallowed some gold. Often for more gold. The fungible type.
Nym's disgust was painted all over her face. Pure Nym, still unjaded. Hoping to call their voiceover's focus to him, he ran his fingers knuckles-first under his chin and bit his lip at Nym, eyelids fluttering as if his hole weren't currently bespelled and illusioned to significantly shrink anything that passed into his body, taking the stalagmite of a phallus to a stalag-meek. An old courtesan trick. He mouthed, "Speleothem? I hardly know 'em!" over and over as the quasit's voiceover announced, "Yeah, mummy, makey me cummy."
Nym coughed and yanked out her plait, dragging her hair over her expression. She cracked her whip. Anything to stop the lines.
"Whick-kat! Whip-pow!" the voice provided. The audience snickered. Nym glared. She was trying to be a professional sex icon, not a laughing stock! She waved the whip again. "Whippity whoppity! Kickapitchaw!"
Then in a higher voice—and neither Nym nor Sorn were sure of why the quasit made Sorn's false voice so high—it said, "Ow! Ow! Mummy? Sorry. Mummy? Sorry."
Nym fumbled the whip. Horrified, she looked to Sorn, but he was too busy trying to figure out why he was apologizing.
"—slapslapslapslap—" Oh no, now it was doing sound effects.
"Charming," Nym mouthed, trying to match her hips to the speed. The voiceover should be following them, not the other way around!
"—schlupschlupschlup—" Not a sound to effect! Not in that high rasp! "Take it, you bandy-legged piggie!"
Sorn's turn to gasp unsexily. Bandy-legged?!
The snickers were full blown laughs, now, and even Sorn was starting to feel flustered. With the hand hidden from their audience, he crossed his fingers to signal stop. Nym pulled out immediately, helping him sit up, pretending like she was tucking her hair behind an ear as she signaled, alright?
He rolled his eyes towards the voice. She widened hers in a, Oh, I know, then reached between his legs as if she were squeezing his sack and used his thighs to block a rude gesture towards their "help". Sorn snorted-laughed. He signaled that they could continue.
"Mommy, I wanna sit in your lap and call you daddy!" said the voice. Now it was making demands! They awkwardly shuffled so Sorn straddled Nym's thighs, his back to the crowd so he could finally stop flexing his abs. Sorn engaged his shoulders, Nym raised her chest, presentation, presentation. He ignored the sharp ache in his knee caps, she tried not to spill over the bands cutting across her stomach and ribs. She spread his cheeks and—
"It's time for fisting!"
The audience roared with laughter. Nym threw up her hands and slid down the seat, slipping awkwardly between his legs. She pointed at the quasit and said something, but since they were both silenced her insult fell flat. Her fingers curled into a fist, she slammed her other hand over her inner elbow and jerked her fist up in a violent, rude motion, before marching off stage, the laughter louder. Sorn stayed for a second, then bowed to the audience and sashayed after her—more laughing—his heels suddenly clicking as he left the spell.
"No! No," Nym was saying as she stomped up the stairs. "I will explore numerous crude, filthy depths, I will make a variety of dirty dreams—nightmares, even!—come true, but I draw the line at using you as a puppet."
Sorn wrinkled his nose. Exquisite. Now puppets would forever pop into his head during his more extreme sessions. He caught up to her on the landing and said, "The spell is still going. I would hardly feel anything. It's not the most depraved thing I've done."
"I have no desire to do it!" And that was that. Mamzell Amira always respected a no. That was why they earned her so much money.
"I'm sorry, darling. I would never pressure you. I only wanted you to know I'm willing."
"I know. I'm sorry, I'm so—ugh! I don't have the words! These straps aren't helping, either." She yanked up a breast and tried to blow under it, to dry the sweat that gathered in the fold, her stomach bulging around the belts as she quit sucking it in. Sorn pulled a handkerchief out of the top of his boot and passed it to her. She dabbed and she said, "Next time, I swear, I get the boots and a brassiere. Are you alright? It said such horrid things about you!"
"I'm wonderful."
"You are." She hugged him, planting a friendly kiss on his cheek. Someone peeked around the corner behind her and leered. A pathetic type who couldn't see two people hug half-naked without getting all heated in the pants. Sorn returned the look with his haughty glare, then Mamzell Amira's hand clamped on their audience and dragged them back. She gestured for her workers to follow her.
"I'm sorry," Nym said, redoing her plait. "I'm sorry, I lost my temper, I—"
"You were completely in the right," said Mamzell Amira. "But, we have a problem. They want more."
"What?" Sorn laughed.
"Even a masochist couldn't want more of that!" said Nym.
"They think it's funny. I'm envisioning a new show, low brow humor. The voiceovers heckle. You two perform. Sometimes with a client."
"You want that quasit to make fun of us?" Nym said.
"Humiliation isn't in my skill set," Sorn said.
"No, no. I want you to join in. Think falling face first in buttocks, cheeky spankings and—"
"A virgin who accidentally ices a cake before the cake has arrived," suggested Nym, thinking back to the young dwarf she'd assisted earlier that week.
"Cream pies to the face, but an actual pie," said Sorn, who was hungry.
"We could dress up your cock in little costumes," Nym mused. "Have it put on a little show."
"You could do that trick where you blow bubbles out of your underdark."
"You could do the trick where we stick a candle in yours and use it to shoot fire."
Mamzell Amira's eyebrows raised. Perhaps her workers had too much downtime.
"A wizard and a pesky breeze, blowing his robe up," said Nym.
"A stroker and the hole it's magically connected to," Sorn said.
"The old fake-out, but a cat is a pussy bit."
"The erection that wouldn't go away."
"The slippery chair!"
"The lick-her license!"
"And the joke about the truly neutral swordsmen removing clothes. They-slash-them."
"Bad sex!" Sorn's eyes lit up. "Just, that's it. All the bad sex we can do!"
"Exactly!" said Mamzell Amira. "One night a week, Shovel narrates some haberdashery. Maybe takes a few digs. If you get a client up there, we'll call it a spit roast."
For a moment they imagined it.
"We can't do this," Nym said.
"You're sure? I thought of you because you each know your limits. You support each other. You walked out tonight when you needed to. And the savior of Baldur's Gate volunteered to be the first on stage. Or, rather, their companions volun-told them. Something about payback for a clown." She waved her hand.
"We're a brand. Sorn and I cannot lose the respect of our clients."
Mamzell set two masks on the table.
"Dame Aylin's masks. Disguise yourselves," she said. "Once a week."
Sorn picked up his and set it on. Instantly he was a paunchy half-elf. He jiggled his stomach happily.
Nym asked, "When do we start?"