The City of Brass isn't just for fire resistance potions. The Ifrit blacksmiths forge collars that grow tighter with every lie the wearer tells. Perfect for the proud little knight who swore they'd never beg for a demon's cock. Imagine the scene: your polished armor discarded, the metal scorching hot against your bare tits, as you're bent over the anvil. The smith's molten cum filling your ass, branding you from the inside out, while the collar chokes your protests into whimpers. The next quest item isn't a sword. It's your signed contract of servitude, still wet between your legs. Ready to negotiate?