1. Do you know Ketirandia?

NOTE: THIS STORY IS LONG. IT CONTAINS VERY STRONG AND EXPLICIT SCENES, BUT THEY WILL BE INTRODUCED GRADUALLY, CHAPTER BY CHAPTER.

Ketirandia was a place that defied all logic. Its territory was primarily insular, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, although it possessed a continental area of a few thousand square kilometers on the African coast, between Somalia and Kenya, a mountainous peninsula that seemed almost inaccessible, with edges protected by imposing cliffs.

No one could enter or leave Ketirandia without passing through its strict controls. It was unbreakable, both militarily and economically. Its greatest treasure, ketirite, a rare mineral with unique properties, was the pillar of advanced technology worldwide. Without it, modern machinery would come to a halt, and quantum computers, artificial intelligence, and cold fusion technology would be unviable. This necessity had made Ketirandia an untouchable nation. Ketirandia was unique in many ways; it was not a religious country but a secular one, and its laws and traditions were outside those of other countries. It had not signed the United Nations Charter nor belonged to any international organization. Its armed forces seemed nonexistent, yet it was an impregnable stronghold; even in the past, it had never been a colony of foreign powers such as Britain or France, and the ketiríes had fiercely defended their independence. Of course, many times greedy eyes had gazed upon the country, and plans were drawn to integrate it into the global machinery, whether by the force of arms or trade, by threats or subtleties, but always with disastrous results for those who tried.

Even satellites could not probe Ketirandia from space, as ketirí technology prevented it; in Ketirandia, phones did not work, nor did any electrical devices, rendering modern vehicles useless. All that foreign countries knew was that there was "interference" that disabled any device using electricity and prevented all types of communications; this explains why the very few armed skirmishes attempted as probes ended in resounding failure, as they consisted of vehicles and arms so rudimentary that they were almost laughable, and to make matters worse, communication for coordination and orders had to be done face to face... with these elements, any attempt was always thwarted in minutes.

But the Free Republic of Ketirandia was not a place that could not be visited. While it did not have what might be called a tourist industry, foreigners who wished to could attempt to visit the country, with a visa. The national currency was the doubloon, and it maintained its convertibility in gold. That is, one doubloon could be purchased with a gram of gold, and in the same way, anywhere in the world, they would exchange a doubloon coin or a hundred doubloon bill for its equivalent value in gold or the currency desired; at the time of our story, in the year 2025, approximately one doubloon was worth eighty euros.

Jorge got up ready to start his return to Madrid. He was in Kenya, where he had just visited the Dodori Nature Reserve, where he had seen gazelles, elephants, and even turtles and dugongs. Deep down, he felt fed up and disappointed; traveling alone at sixty-five years old was a mistake. Yes, he had taken beautiful photos and seen wonderful landscapes, but he felt more lonely than ever. To top it off, if he had any hot fantasies before departing with compliant and athletic black boys, this vanished completely upon realizing not only that he did not like most of the boys, but also that any homosexual manifestation was severely punished in that country, despite travel guides speaking of "a certain openness" in that aspect; but the truth was that none of his travel companions, a third-rate excursion at luxury prices, suspected that behind his peaceful and conventional facade there was an active and very dominant gay; or at least that’s how Jorge considered himself internally.

After breakfast, the guide told them that a difficulty had arisen: in Somalia, the war had intensified, and a recent incursion prevented movement towards the capital, Nairobi, to take the flight home. They would have to stay at the small rundown hotel in the national park, although they should not worry about expenses, which would be covered by the insurance contracted by the agency. This deeply troubled Jorge, who wanted to return to his little flat in Madrid as soon as possible. He quickly opened his laptop – luckily there was internet connectivity – and tried to find another option. In the Spanish embassy in Nairobi was Miguel Ángel, an old friend from his youth and now consul in Kenya; in fact, he had been the one to recommend visiting the country and had helped him with diplomatic procedures. A chat began between the two.

“Hello Miguel Ángel, it’s Vicente. I'm trapped in Dodori, but I’d like to return to Madrid as soon as possible; can you help me?”

“Hola Jorge, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but no, no one can bring you here until who knows when… the last time the guerrilla cut the road and the coastal train we took three months to resume communication.”

“Three months! Don’t tell me… isn’t there any option?”

“No. Well, unless you want to pass through Ketirandia, of course, hahahaha. :)”

“Ketirandia? Where they say there are cannibals and savages?”

“Hahahahaha, nooooo, don’t pay attention to that, neither one nor the other.”

“But I’ve read some things, all bad…”

“Look, it’s a very strange country. But it’s completely safe if you cross it in transit. Do you have a return ticket to Madrid?”

“Yes, Nairobi / Paris / Madrid, leaving in three days, Thursday the 18th at 13:22.”

“Well, you can go to Sunrut, on the coast, very close to where you are, and there are daily flights to Nairobi. I’ll pick you up at the airport, and that’s it.”

“And that’s it? So easy? I don’t need a visa or anything?”

“Of course you need it. And you have to sign a kind of confidentiality contract that commits you not to get surprised, criticize or interfere in local customs. I can handle all that paperwork for you if you want. By the way, although I can send you everything electronically, you will need to bring it in printed paper, since nothing works there, neither mobiles nor computers, and there is no internet or anything. But it will be just a few hours, don’t worry.”

They agreed that in a few hours Miguel Ángel would send him all the documents via email to print at the hotel. In the meantime, Jorge packed his bags and searched Google for information about the Free Republic of Ketirandia... without success. He did not know that the power of this state was so great that it could remain outside search indexes; it was not that there was nothing on the internet about the country; it was simply that any mention was automatically excluded from search engines, so unless you knew the address of the website, you would never navigate to the relevant page. Knowing this, the commercial travel and tourism portals acted as stern censors, so that any comment about this strange country, whether praiseworthy or calumnious, was instantly deleted without hesitation… under penalty of suffering the ignominy of being excluded from search engines, something catastrophic for such companies.

He then recalled having read something a long time ago about this country, references that its laws allowed slavery and corporal punishment, and even more, that the established social norm was homosexuality. Jorge thought that only in a barbaric and backward state could something like this fit, although at the same time he felt a tingle in his groin and the ambiguous sensation of both rejecting and desiring that this reality occurred. Though what struck him the most was the existence of a country based on homosexuality; he thought that perhaps it referred to some rite or period of apparent homosexuality, like in ancient Greece. Well, but one had to get there. He asked for a map at the hotel and checked that the border was just 150 km away, although the downside was that he had to head towards Somalia, as the tiny land enclave of Ketirandia was nestled between Somalia and Kenya.

He was unable to convince any native to take him in their car, but not out of fear of going to Ketirandia, as he had thought, but of the Somali militia. He was about to abandon the project when the hotel manager proposed selling him a vehicle.

“Look, sir,” the manager said in his curious French. “Buy the Rover. It’s very old, but it will take you. It’s all diesel, all diesel, the interference doesn’t affect it; I used to go every week with a tour to the border, round trip, always safe, always runs, it’s all reliable. I need money because I still have to pay for the provisions of your companions and the insurance doesn’t give me anything right now, so this is good for both of us.”

“But how am I going to buy the car just for one trip? From there I’m taking a flight back to Nairobi. It’s ridiculous.”

“I charge very little. Half of half. Then when the guerrilla leaves I recover the Rover if I’m lucky, or I lose it if they take it. You leave it in the parking area, the ‘Last parking,’ it’s called.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Only five hundred euros. Three hundred.”

Jorge had internally calculated to pay up to a thousand, so the deal was closed at three hundred, amidst great laughter and thanks from the manager, who put sufficient fuel in the vehicle for a round trip: a full tank. He hurriedly loaded his luggage into the dilapidated vehicle, prayed it wouldn’t fall apart too soon, made sure he was taking the correct route, a simple dirt road that he was assured had no detours or crossroads and led directly to the port city of Sunrut, in Ketirandia, and set off without saying goodbye to anyone but after eating a few rushed bites, hoping that his next meal, as it should be, would already be in Nairobi… or Paris… or Madrid. He was scared, of course, of encountering danger along the way, but the truth was that everything seemed clear. As he drove toward the border, an unsettling silence filled the air. The arid and golden landscapes surrounding Ketirandia did not seem to welcome strangers; rather, they pushed them away, as if the whole country were a sleeping colossus that would awaken at the slightest provocation. The stories he had heard about that place came back to his mind, and although he tried to remain calm, a part of him could not avoid feeling a mixture of fascination and fear.

Soon he understood what the manager meant by "the interference," as his Google Maps stopped functioning; even more so, his phone turned off, as if a black hand had disconnected it. Fortunately, the vehicle continued to chug along at a good speed, and Jorge fervently wished he was approaching a destination along that clean path devoid of indications. Then he saw it. It was barely a spot, a human figure that grew before him, making ostensible gestures waving its arms. He could turn around, but was that reasonable? What if it turned out to be a Somali advance? He slowed down and approached; there seemed to be no one else there. The image was surreal: a boy about twenty years old, as white as milk, almost two meters tall, wearing a red tank top and shorts cut almost to the groin, exposing two legs devoid of hair. He wore a type of Australian hat and a backpack on his back.

“Water, sir, please,” he said in a pleading tone while smiling mischievously.

Jorge stopped next to him and handed him a two-liter bottle of water, which the stranger gulped down without asking; it was still cool because he had kept it covered under a blanket on the passenger seat. Since the vehicle was open, they could talk without having to get out of it; Jorge, very nervous, was ready to drive off with a honk if necessary.

At least, there was no one else with him, he thought with relief. After quenching his thirst, the young man thanked him in English, which he spoke fluently; in fact, Jorge thought his nationality would be British. When the young man learned that Jorge was Spanish, he spoke to him in his language almost as well as any compatriot.

“Oh, sir, I know Spain, I’ve worked in Ibiza for two years. Many compatriots go there on vacation, and I served them.”

“It's true, the English go a lot to those islands.”

“English? Oh, right; but no, I’m Russian, sir.”

“Well, you speak perfect English too.”

“Thank you very much. It’s not difficult; I told you I was there for two years.”

Jorge thought that if he were a waiter in Moscow for two years, he wouldn’t speak Russian with such ease, but he kept the reflection to himself. That boy, so perfect, so unreal, was the dream of any man. His nipples were outlined under the shirt and sometimes even protruded from the side, although he tried to make sure the young man didn’t notice. He had a fantastic ass, it was maddening; what was he doing there?

“Sir, would you take me to Sunrut? I can’t pay, but I will give you company.”

Having this dream guy next to him was an irresistible temptation. In reality, the most prudent thing would probably be to leave alone, but he convinced himself that together they could face better a Somali militia assault, which was stupidity since a burst of gunfire was still an unmanageable danger. With a gesture he tried to make calm, he pointed to the back; the young man adjusted his backpack and sat in the passenger seat after removing the blanket and the bottles. The trip resumed. Jorge calculated that they were halfway there, which meant at least a couple of hours, as they necessarily had to go slowly. Then he realized they hadn’t introduced themselves.

“My name is Jorge.”

“I’m Alexander. At home they call me Sasha, and outside of Russia, Alex.”

“I understand that there are several names in Russian, right?”

“Oh, yes, of course; my full name is Alexander Paulovich Sokolov.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex.”

With the jolting of the trip, the shirt was riding up a few inches, revealing a beautiful belly button with a fine line of hair that disappeared toward the top, possibly dividing his torso in two; Jorge didn’t like hair, but the good thing about having a body like a ten was that anything looked good on you, even hair. Jorge worked hard to disguise his strategic glances and put on his sunglasses as much as possible.

“Are you also traveling to Nairobi?”

“Yes, but I have something to do in Sunrut. Photos for a magazine, they are going to buy them from me. With that money I want to marry Nadia, my fiancée in Moscow. We have already chosen a dacha, and everything is ready.”

“And isn’t that forbidden? I mean, taking photos and bringing them out of the country. In any case, I don’t think your phone is going to work; it seems they have no electricity… by the way, I hope this doesn’t affect the planes,” Jorge thought horrified. “But no, what a silly thought; if they fly regularly, it’s because at least at the airport, electrical devices do work.”

Alex rummaged in his backpack (his long arms easily reached the back seat) and pulled out an analog Nikon camera.

“This model has no battery for the light meter: it’s completely manual. I have chemical films; everything is prepared.”

“But wait, where are you coming from? How were you alone on the road there?”

“I come from Somalia. My plan was to arrive along the coast, but that wasn’t possible, I had to go inland and miscalculated. I almost got caught by the militia, but I was lucky and some compatriots took me inside Kenya; they are mercenaries hired by the Kenyans… that doesn't matter. The case is that when I thought I was in the right place, I separated from them; with the GPS, I could orient myself, which is good in one way and bad in another, because it showed I was far from my objective. But I found the path and walked towards Ketirandia… then you appeared.”

There was something irresistible about that vital fire in Alex, so confident, so daring… so beautiful. Jorge thought about Nadia and imagined the giant fucking her… which gave him an intense erection. He had to bring up a subject of conversation.

“Well, so your plan is to take some photos and sneak them out, don’t you fear getting caught? I think they are very strict about that, like North Korea or worse.”

“It will just be one roll of film. The camera will stay, and the film will come out hidden in my body.”

“In your body? Are you going to insert it through...?”

“No, what are you saying! I’m going to swallow it inside a special bag. Then in Russia, it will come out, you know… hahahahaha.”

“That’s very dangerous! You could have an obstruction or something worse!”

“It’s the risk. But they’re going to give me a lot of money. It’s not for me; it’s for Sonia and me. And how did you think I was going to put it in there behind? That’s if I’m gay and I’m not! How disgusting!”

Jorge thought that being Russian and homophobic was almost inevitable. Poor gay Russians. Maybe that’s why he was interested in Ketirandia.

“Well, they say that in the country we are going to, being gay is well regarded.”

“I don’t understand why they don’t wipe this place off the map. I’d drop an atomic bomb and that’s it. Out with the gays, out with the perverts. They should all be dead. Sorry if you have a gay friend or something, but that’s how I feel; they’re so… pathetic. I know them; in Ibiza, they always come and look at me, old, filthy, effeminate. How disgusting.”

Jorge quickly lost his erection and thought almost in panic about what would happen if Alex suspected him. Poor boy, so sure he could recognize gays immediately and sitting next to one who would fuck him if that were not just a hot fantasy. Evidently, before letting a single hair of that precious muscle mass touch him, it would have smashed his head... Something inside him started to generate rejection for the damned Alex, a homophobic and irresponsible muscleman; if he was going to take photos, then fine, but he didn’t want to be associated with him, lest there be any problems; and he even began to maliciously wish that things wouldn’t go as well as he planned.

“Well, if you don’t mind, we’ll each arrive at the customs control; then maybe we’ll see each other at the airport. My flight leaves on Thursday; I’ll spend the night there, or maybe if I find a hotel. I don’t know. When do you fly?”

“On Friday the 19th in the afternoon.”

“Oh, well, maybe then we won’t see each other… or yes, who knows.”

He began to wish to get rid of that very blond boy with such gray eyes, with that navel and those legs, and those strong arms… yes, he didn’t want to see that perfect ass that separated from a wide back by a much slimmer waist than his.

There was still a good stretch left, Jorge calculated, maybe an hour. The sun was still high; they would arrive well before sunset. In time, all this would be an anecdote, maybe one or two wanks thinking about Alex. Well, maybe four. He didn’t even look at him anymore, nor did he see that navel that… whew, my goodness.

“Jorge, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need a favor.”

“Well… I have just enough money, Alex.”

In reality, he had much more than enough, but he wasn’t willing to let that muscle hunk take his money. Well, just a bit, perhaps. But not much.

“No, no. That’s not it; I already have the plane ticket, and I don’t need anything else; I even have food in my backpack. It’s something else. I don’t have a visa; it’s almost impossible to get it; they don’t want to give it to Russians.”

Of course, they wouldn’t give it to you, Jorge thought. But if you’re homophobic, what did you expect from a country that tolerates gays? Now Ketirandia didn’t seem so bad to him after all; they put the little Russians in their place.

“Well, I’m really sorry, but I don’t see how I could help you with that.”

“Yes, yes, you can. I can cross the border with you if you allow me.”

“Travel with me? Like you were my youngest son or something? Impossible, we have different passports, and besides, no one would believe…”

“No, no, not like that.”

Jorge watched in astonishment as Alex started to turn red as a tomato. It must be the heat… or not?

“I can go with you as a servant.”

“As a servant?”

“Yes, sorry, servant, personal server.”

“With the same visa? Impossible… without being close family, I don’t think so.”

“Yes, yes, there’s a ketiratí law; you have it written in your visa.”

In reality, he hadn’t reviewed the documentation much, just the name and little more. There was the famous confidentiality clause and a lot of small print in English and French that he hadn’t bothered to read more than superficially. Just then they made a curve and saw the famous “Last Parking,” completely empty; and a stone’s throw away, a huge gray wall with a single opening where the brilliant letters “K. S. R.” shone. A flag, undoubtedly the national emblem, flew high on a flagpole.

“Mr. Jorge, please wait, stop in the parking, and I will show you your visa.”

Jorge didn’t want to take out a document like that; what if he stole it? Although it wouldn’t do him much good, because it was coded and printed; he couldn’t just fake it. The damned boy put his arm around his neck, although undoubtedly with no malice; but this made Jorge’s dick twitch again, which hardened once more. Reluctantly, Jorge searched for the visa.

“Will you let me and will I show it to you?”

Alex began flipping through Jorge’s documents until he got to a specific paragraph.

“Do you see? Here you can write my name and everything is legal.”

He was pointing to an empty line where apparently someone like an accompanying person could be inscribed on the visa holder.

“But Alex, have you read it well? Look at the heading… ‘Name and surname of the permanent slave.’ It’s not just an accompanying person or servant; it’s for a ‘slave’!”

“Of course, I already knew that. But it’s the only way. Look, it’s just one day; then you leave.”

“But we have different flights. As soon as they check, they will know it’s all a lie.”

“We’ll say they were bought like that by mistake and that it doesn’t matter; we’ll meet in Nairobi. Surely they won’t notice. Or if something happens, you’ll have already gone; it’s my problem.”

“But Alex, it’s very risky…”

Jorge didn’t want to take part in that game; who knows what could happen if they caught them in the ketiratí authorities. Alex realized from Jorge’s expression that he was unwilling to help him.

“I understand you. You’re not a gay, and you’re embarrassed.”

“How do you mean?”

“You’re not a gay. If you have a slave, it’s certain you’re a depraved person, a pervert, a sick person. That’s what I want to show in my photos, proof of depravity. And it’s normal that you don’t want to appear to be like that.”

Jorge read now, for the first time, the complete text of the visa and its annexes. Indeed, the transit of the “main traveler and his animals, among which may be a permanent slave if both the traveler and slave are male” was accepted. The traveler must be able to prove the legal possession of his properties… Then came many rules and norms, but that was fundamentally it.

“Look Alex, let’s imagine I want to help you. How would I be able to prove that I legally possess you? Slavery is illegal in any country.”

Alex’s face lit up with the glow of hope that appeared with Jorge’s phrase. It was evident that he was not someone who didn’t know what he was talking about; the boy had studied the topic thoroughly.

“But it is legal in Ketirandia. And one of the recognized forms is voluntary and irrevocable submission, that’s how they call it. That is, if I draft a document by which I surrender to you forever as an absolute slave, renouncing being a person and passing into the rank of your object or animal, subjected to your total authority, from their point of view, I become your permanent slave, in which case I fit into your visa.”

Now it was Jorge who turned red, as the idea of having a slave of that caliber, even if just to pretend and for a few hours seemed like a dream come true; in his wildest fantasies, he would never have imagined it, he, who was so average physically, who had never conquered a handsome boy…

“If it embarrasses you so much, it’s because you’re an upright and honest man, not a gay. I know it. But please, I ask you; when I saw you, I realized you were a blessing for me; I couldn’t enter alone.”

“Okay, Alex, I’ll do it. It’s madness, but I think the risk is going to be for you. Have you thought about how we’ll do it? I don't know how we should present ourselves; I don't know what it's like to have a slave.”

As soon as Alex heard Jorge’s yes, he launched into filling out the papers. The afternoon was starting to fall, and it wasn't something to take too long. He took a large notebook from his backpack and wrote with his own hand a document similar to the one described, in which he declared himself a slave of Jorge; he copied the passport details, put a false date, and signed it; Jorge did so too. Alex's handwriting was impressively beautiful; he handed the document to Jorge.

“Done, I’m your slave now. From now on, I’ll call you ‘Master.’”

“Sounds strange.”

“You have to get used to it… Master.”

“Ha, ha…”

Deep down, Jorge was incredibly excited by the situation; he had probably partly given in to the farce driven by his erection.

“You keep the contract as a keepsake, and later if we see each other in Spain, you make me wash the dishes with it.”

“Ha ha ha, well, that would be a sign that everything went well.”

Joking, they took out their luggage and prepared to go through customs, which they assumed was behind the ugly door of the wall. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

“Wait, Master,” Alex said, very much in his role. “Don’t touch the suitcases; that will be my job. Oh, and I’m going to get sexy.”

Alex began to undress except for his underwear, and Jorge very prudently turned around. The young man took a garment from his backpack and put it on; it was a kind of one-piece outfit that served as both pants and shirt.

“It’s for gymnastic purposes; the girls love it,” he smiled mischievously.

And it’s not surprising… the garment was completely fitted, and to top it all, leaving his torso practically bare except for two thin straps; Jorge checked that Alex was not completely hairless and that indeed a line of blond hairs reached from his sternum down to his navel. Aware of his appearance, he turned around completely for Jorge to see, as if expecting some kind of approval; but Jorge, entranced more than he could handle, just watched him while turning red, convinced that Alex would eventually notice.

“Oh, Mr. Jorge… Master Jorge… no, Master, Master, just Master… excuse the embarrassment; I’m an idiot; I don’t want you to regret it now.”

“No, no, it’s fine, come on, let’s finish this as soon as possible.”

Alex put his own backpack on his back, and with some difficulty, crossed the meters that separated them from the customs office. As they approached, the door opened automatically, something neither of them expected since they assumed they were entering a country without electricity. But this was the smallest and first of the surprises that awaited them.