DIETER GOERING
by Bill Smith
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A Guided Tour of the Estate Grounds
Most of the guests had come for the weekend and, although the dinner party was the main event, most guests enjoyed a tour of the Goering estate, never knowing if they would be invited again or not. Besides, many guests were simply business associates who faded in and out of Dieter's social life as his business interests led him in one direction after another. Even those who had been invited numerous times never turned down a invitation to tour the estate - it was constantly changing with new gardens, new crops being farmed, etc., and certainly the Goering staff making it all run so smoothly were worth looking at - even those with some clothes on them as they got near the perimeters of the estate.
The tour started in late afternoon in that the guests, being up most of the night, slept through the morning. When the guests had finally aroused themselves from whatever position they were in when they dozed off in the dining room, they had generally grabbed the pleasure slave they had brought with them (now freshly cleansed inside and out) and headed for the guest quarters where Dieter's house steward had a suite ready for each of them, complete with a comfortable king-size bed, a full bath, and a tiny slave compartment complete with wall ring and connecting chain, a pallet on the floor with a clean blanket, and a food and watering dish. The leash chain to the slave's collar, tit ring, genital band, or nose ring (whichever his master preferred to leash him by) was long enough to allow the slave access to his food and water, the toilet facilities, and, most importantly, his master's bed.
Most of Dieter's guests (and their slaves) utilized the time to sleep, although a few of the youngest guests, ever frisky, either fucked their slaves up their asses or down their throats as a night cap (to assure they slept well) or upon awakening (to get the day started properly or, at the very least, get rid of the erection they seemed to always have when first waking up). Breakfast wasn't served, so only the slaves pressed into sucking their masters off got anything to eat that morning.
Each guest suite was served a bountiful buffet tray around 2 P.M. with some 'slave mush' in a metal dish on it for the guests' personal slave. Before eating, however, most of the guests used their personal slaves to empty their balls as was their custom when starting a new day. After a good breakfast, those same slaves helped their masters shower, shave, and dress.
Although the guests could take their personal slaves with them on the tour if they insisted, Dieter had suggested it might be best if they left their slaves safely chained up in the guest suites. It would simplify the transportation arrangements, give their slaves a chance to clean themselves thoroughly and then rest up for a busy night, and past experience had taught him that displaying exotic pleasure slaves in all their glory to 'investors' and 'collaterals' working on the estate under lease often got them so excited it interfered with their work. And displaying them to the 'wards' and 'outright purchases' tended to aggravate them, knowing pleasure slaves were excused from doing the hard, backbreaking chores they performed each and every day. Dieter explained he thought that aggravation was from envy of the easy life of the pleasure slaves but it could be resentment at their good fortune - he wasn't sure. At any rate, it was best to leave their pleasure slaves left chained by their collars while taking the tour. "No use riling up the working classes," he laughed.
Dieter then told his guests he wouldn't be accompanying them. "I've seen it," he laughed. "And besides, there's a new addition to my harem I haven't really explored yet - an American football player who my agent assures me I will find.... well .... interesting, was the way he put it I think." When everyone laughed at that comment, Dieter added, "Well, the agent also told me he's got a tremendous package on him, so I really need to check it out." Again, laughter ran through all the guests, all of which had probably had similar experiences in checking out new slaves.
A very modern battery-operated bus was utilized for the tour, complete with luxurious leather "captain's chair" individual seats, an absolutely beautiful well-muscled collared driver fitted with tit rings as well as a prominent nose ring and a pair of form-fitting elasticized shorts that left nothing to the imagination. He was joined by an identically outfitted most handsome steward who served coffee, wine, tea, or, on demand, his own cream, and who would also serve as the tour's guide and principal narrator. Both servants sported the Goering crest on their left pectoral which had been artfully tattooed into their hide.
When everyone was comfortably seated and the air conditioning adjusted, the bus steward began humbly explaining the various sites out of the windows as the bus slowly went from one area of the estate to another.
"First, masters, let me introduce myself and your driver today. I'm Brent, and the driver is Rodney. We're both 'wards,' products of some 'investors' and 'collaterals' fucking around when they shouldn't have been, and have been lucky enough to be under the guardianship of the Goerings ever since. We'll see some of those 'investors' and 'collaterals' in their work assignments today, so when you're watching them work, think also of them in their off-duty time, when most of us 'wards' are produced. What perhaps make 'wards' special is that both the 'investors' and 'collaterals' work 84 hour weeks in demanding tasks - in the little time they aren't working or sleeping or eating they somehow managed to produce us, so you know we come from good energetic stock to start with."
Dieter's guests chuckled at the 'ward's' humor and settled back in their comfortable seats for what promised to be an entertaining and enjoyable tour.
"When 'wards' turn out to be as good looking and charming as Rodney and I," and again laughter filled the bus, "we often get special assignments like this gig on the tour bus. But we don't just chatter away and chauffeur a bus to earn our keep - both Rodney and I are more than willing to pleasure you any way you want at any of our rest stops or, perhaps, you'd like one or the other of us up in your suite at the manor house once we return. It's your call - we're certainly game for it," Brent said with a huge smile as he suggestively rubbed the huge bulge displayed in his tight shorts.
"And don't let the ring in our nose septum throw you off," Rodney turned around from the driver's seat with a glint in his eye, "it only adds to the excitement."
Again, the guests all laughed in unison, instantly liking both 'wards' as well as the way the tour was being conducted. For the first-time guests, initially disappointed that Dieter Goering wasn't personally going to accompany them on the tour, the fact their host wasn't there didn't seem to matter any more.
"We both have two collars on us," Rodney continued. "The one you don't see is even prettier than the one we have around our neck. But, don't worry! If you're real nice to us this afternoon, Brent and I will make sure you all get a chance to examine it for yourself," he added with a cocky tilt of his head.
The sheer audaciousness of the two 'wards' was hilarious and something Deiter's guests were rarely exposed to, being surrounded with quiet, servile slaves at all times who only spoke in response to a direct question or in responding to a command. It was hard to put the two outrageous but extremely good-looking 'wards' into the same category as their slaves, but everyone on board that bus knew that's what they were in actual fact - owned possessions of the Goerings, no matter how charming and cute.
"If you look out to the right, you'll see a good sample of the farming operations here at the Goering estate. About 3000 acres is currently being farmed, about 25% of the estate's land, and is worked by over 500 'investors' and 400 'collaterals' sent to the estate from the Goering banks. Since these workers are fixed term, there is a slow but steady turnover of farm workers but the bulk of them are here for at least four years, so turnover really isn't a problem in training them. As most of you know, they work seven days a week, 12 hours a day, and in all the free-time left over they clean themselves up, eat all the nutritious but crappy tasting food that's provided twice a day - when they first get up and when their work day is over, take a good long dumb in the barrack's seatless toilets, and spend the rest of their time sucking each other off or plugging each other up the ass if they're smart or fucking like most of them did at home if they're not and producing the likes of Rodney and myself for the Goerings to take care of."
Again, Brent's wit was met with enthusiastic response.
"If you and Rodney are any example of the Goering's wards, thank God for all that screwing around in their spare time," one of the guests on the tour exclaimed.
"I'll take that as a compliment," Brent shot back, "although some people call us bastards," he added with a chuckle, "or worse," he added.
"At least there's not a queer bone in our body," Rodney interjected, "that we inherited, at least," he added with another twinkle in his eye. If we'd inherited it, we wouldn't be here to start with," he broke out into a strong laugh. "Think of all the 'wards' that never were, simply because their parents were all queer back in the barracks."
Again, the wit of the driver led to considerable laughter.
"Does that mean you're no good in a man's bed?" the Greek ship builder asked the flippant 'ward.'
"Not at all, master," Rodney shot back. "Quite the contrary. We 'wards' have inherited the genes of folks who had sex drives that even the Goerings couldn't control - wait until that's translated into some serious action in your own bed," Rodney exclaimed with no hint of shame or embarrassment that he was open for any action the guests might want.
"Frankly, Rodney and me are wasted on this tour bus," Brent announced. "Our real talent lies elsewhere," he suggestively added as he again rubbed his crotch restrained by the skin-tight shorts with one hand while cupping his pectoral muscles with the other so his ringed tits were prominently displayed.
This last comment simply cracked the guests up as it was obvious it was going to be a never-to-be-forgotten tour of a fabulous estate to start with. Something you could tell your grandchildren about long after you couldn't get it up anymore.
Brent continued his tour talk. "You can tell the 'investor' workers by their smart looking brown coveralls. Within a few years, those boys will be gracing the classrooms of some of the world's leading colleges and technical institutes and all of this will just be a distant memory - not much different from a stint in the Army or Navy outside of that collar around their neck and the lack of anyone shooting at them. Within five or ten years out of college, they'll more than likely be in the market for a good looking slave or so to bring a little pleasure in their life or, if their career isn't working out as well as they thought, at least an ugly one to do all the dirty work around their place."
The bus stopped briefly so the visitors could study the 'investors' hard at work moving 100 pound bales of hay, operating tractors, and branding cattle. Most of them had uniforms wet with the sweat of their efforts, faces deeply tanned by the outside exposure, and eyes ever alert for any movement on the part of their overseers.
"Brent, what keeps them at it? Those boys in the brown coveralls seem to be working just as hard now as they probably were when they were fresh first thing this morning. I see their overseers here and there, but where are the whips?" one of the first-time visitors asked.
"See those electronic notepads each supervisor has, master?" Brent replied. "They mark any slowdown, work stoppage, smart talk, back talk, or shitty attitude down as it occurs and each 'Investor' knows a notation has been made on his performance by a little click in his collar the moment the notation has been sent to the estate's central computer. After one of those notations, the 'investor' doesn't have any supper that night; after two there's no breakfast the next morning; after three, he's given ten lashes on his back and butt before light's out; after four, he's given 20 lashes; after five, he's given 15 with a bullwhip all over his body; after six, he's in such bad shape he can't work for a week or so which is added to his time. If that normal discipline isn't working, they just put a shock collar on him and he gets fried every time he transgresses, and if that doesn't work, he's fitted with a shock collar around his balls. If even that doesn't work, he's booted out and is ineligible to reapply to the program. In other words, he has no future outside of selling himself into slavery. At lot of the guys 'test' the system when they first get here to see how much they can get by with; after a few missed meals and, for the stubborn, some scars on their back, they shape up real fast. That's why so few 'investors' go to college with torn up backs, burnt genitals, or even a hungry look. Very few 'investors' ever wash out of the program - I think peer pressure has a lot to do with it. No one wants to look like a stupid asshole in front of their friends. And think how disappointed their parents and family would be in them for messing up their big opportunity to make something of themselves."
"What a succinct description," the guest replied. "Burnt balls, torn up backs, stupid assholes - very descriptive, Brent."
"Well, master, I never went to college like where those boys are headed," Brent said sassily.
"After their term of service is up, any problems for the 'investors', Brent?" another first-time guest inquired.
"I don't really know, master, but I've heard they have problems in their marriages sometimes. You see, master, here they either have to sneak over to the women's dorm and risk producing a 'ward' like me, or just use each other for some relief. Most of them end up using each other, learn to like it, and when they're all through college and get married, some of them aren't very satisfying to their women. We 'wards' are brought up from the very beginning to satisfy a master or a mistress and we don't have a bit of trouble," he laughed as he again cupped his genitals suggestively. "The other problem, master, well I don't know if I should get into it or not....." Brent hesitated.
"Go ahead, Brent," the guest commanded.
"Well, master, when some of these 'investors' sneak over to the women's barracks and knock the women 'investors' up, those 'wards' are usually sold by their guardians when they reach marketable age - not as much with the Goerings, who tend to keep some of the best looking their 'wards for their own use, but with most other guardians who have leased 'investors' for any period of time. By the time those 'wards' hit the market is about the same time the former 'investors' are all through their college and well established in their careers making a lot of money - enough money, master to buy slaves. Some of them inadvertently buy their own sons and daughters and neither the masters or their new slaves know anything about the family connection since DNA testing isn't involved in the transaction. One of the master's guests on our last tour told about a mistress buying a handsome well-equipped pleasure slave at an auction of 'wards' being disposed of for the purpose of servicing her whenever she wanted. It turned out the new bed boy she'd bought was her own son birthed back in the 'investor' barracks 20 years earlier. That same master said he also knew of a man, formerly an 'investor,' who was attracted to a slave up at auction because the slave had the same hair color and complexion and body build he did. He bought the slave as his personal bed buck and only realized years later that the slave was too much like him - he had sired the boy back in his 'investor' days when he was fucking one of females in that program."
"You're right, we could have done without hearing about that little complication. Besides, what's the probability of anything like that ever occurring? But, still, what happened in those particular cases?" the guest asked.
"Nothing, master, as far as I know. The master telling the story said that in both cases they were eventually sold off to another owner so it really didn't make any difference."
"Brent, did those 'wards' know they were owned by one of their biological parents?" another guest asked.
"The way I understood it, master, they figured it out, but it didn't make any difference to them. What could they do anyway? They had to do what they were told by their owner and no slave I know would start bringing up complications like that if they had half a wit to them. And why should they care? But the master telling the story said the problem was with the slave's owners. When they eventually found out they were screwing their own son, they decided they'd really rather being screwing someone else and sold them the first chance they got."
"That's what I would do," the guest responded, along with a chorus of affirmatives from the others in the group. "There's no way you could hold the master responsible for something like that - after all, they bought the slave in good faith."
"Any of you my pappy?" Rodney joked from the driver's seat. "Speaking for myself, it doesn't make a damn's worth of difference to me, as long as you appreciate the fine piece of meat that's your new property. Got any bids from the back seat?" he laughed. "Besides, if you're my daddy, you must be one hell of a stud to produce anything as pretty as yours truly. Isn't that right, Brent?"
The driver's audacious jocularity broke the tension and Brent continued his talk about the women 'investors' busily working on the other side of the road planting and cultivating, pointing out the women workers were easy to manage and typically uncomplaining so supervising them was "a piece of cake."
The tour bus then speeded up and took them to a huge building where the 'collaterals' were toiling away at assembling plasma TV sets dressed in their single issue of a ragged pair of pants and, of course, their collar which announced their status. Most of the 'collaterals' were in their early 20s but some, probably returnees to the program, were well into their 30s and 40s. All had lost their fat due to the diet of slave chow and all were quite muscular from all the lifting required in their work. Since they were bare above the waist, it was easy to see the whip scars and burns of the electric prods on their backs and chests, but such discipline seemed to be effective in keeping them working hard throughout the long day.
Brent pointed out that despite all the hard work and all the scars of a heavy whip on their backs, most of them went right back to the malls and incessant credit-card purchasing that got them into trouble to start with.
Rodney added this was a perfect case of where strong punishment, incarceration, and severe discipline wasn't proving to be rehabilitative. "Nothing seems to be able to change them," was his conclusion, "so they might as well just enslave them, chain them to the assembly tables, keep a good whip on them, and forget anything about an 'end of term' if you ask me, but, of course, no one has asked me," he laughed.
"One thing they are good at, though," Brent pointed out, "is producing the likes of Rodney and I. Four out of every five 'wards' produced are the products of these guys right in front of you. Master Dieter says that if you're irresponsible about debt, you're irresponsible about most everything, including a bunch of bastard children they expect others to take care of. Of course," Brent chuckled, "Master Dieter always adds that in the long run, it's people like himself, the big contractors of 'colateral's' labor, that ultimately benefit. He claims 'wards' typically sell for at least 600% over the cost of raising them."
"And in our case, Brent, at least 2000%, I'd wager," Rodney chimed in from the driver's seat. "Of course, most 'wards' don't turn out as beautiful and appealing as us," he turned his head and ran his tongue over his perfect lips in another suggestive display as he fondled one of his ringed tips with his free hand.
"God Almighty!" a guest near the back exclaimed. "How does Dieter put up with all your bull shit?"
"Master Goering says he likes his tours to be light-hearted in that people are too serious nowadays - especially about something as good for mankind as indentured servants and slaves.," Brent said apologetically.
"When Master Goering really gets tired of all our silly chatter, he plugs our mouths with something interesting to suck," Rodney added. "Anybody interested in shutting us up right now? We can always pull over."
"Drive on. You two are just looking for an excuse to get an afternoon snack," the guest bringing up the question about the slaves' brass laughed.
"'Collaterals' are a big money maker for Master Goering," Brent continued. "Both in their work output and in the number of 'wards' they produce."
"Now we're entering the area where the 'wards' like us are working. 'Wards' generally do the really grungy things folks don't like to do but which have to be done anyway - garbage disposal, sewage plants, rendering plants, that sort of thing. You can tell a 'ward' generally by his lack of clothes, his heavy ringing, and that really thick collar around his neck. Although Rodney and I have shorts on today so as not to make anyone feel envious, you can tell what we are anyway because of the thick slave collar and all the rings, including the nose ring, we're fitted with. 'Wards' not exceptionally good looking end up doing the dirty work generally, both here at the Goering estate as well as most places that have bought them. The Goerings sell off most of their 'wards' when they're full grown or almost so, and keep the best looking here at the estate. Any of those boys out there you're looking at clean up real well once they're properly scrubbed and body shaved and are available to any guests or the Goerings at any time, just as we are. The ugly ones are long gone - sold at auctions all over the world and are probably making sure your sewers are working properly wherever you're from," Brent explained.
"And all us 'wards' are fully trained to be sex slaves if that's what a master or mistress wants," Rodney added. "In fact, I imagine we've received more solid instruction in that than in most things."
"Are you saying, Rodney, there's no such thing as a virgin 'ward?' a guest asked.
"Precisely, at least not as far as a boy can remember," Rodney laughed heartily.
The electric bus continued on its way as all the guests ogled all the naked bodies on both sides of the bus, many of which were showing hard and all of them indicating they were available for whatever the bus passengers may have had in mind.
"Don't let those whores tempt you," Brent advised, "when you can always have the likes of Rodney and I who are a lot better looking if you examine them closely."
"Yeah, and we're more experienced too," Rodney added with a titter as he ran his hand through his hair.
Soon they were at the areas where purchased slaves were assembled, totally naked and sweating away under their overseer's watchful eye and whips ready to lash out at the slightest slowdown.
"The Goerings only buy the best the market has to offer," Brent said, "so most of the stock you see out the windows here run in the six figures when they're auctioned. The Goerings' agents pick this stock out for their muscular physiques, their exceptional good looks, and, as you can see swinging between their legs, their fine male equipment. Some of them, if they're lucky, might be fortunate enough to be picked to work in the manor house once their sex training is complete, others might be sold off to brothels if the price is right, and the best among them will probably be put to stud at the Goering's breeding barns right here on the estate, which specializes in exceptionally good looking European-type blond, blue-eyed products that are exceptionally hung and always eager. What you're looking at right now in the holding pens on the left have just been purchased and are being fitted with the necessary collars, rings, etc., as well as the family crest tattoo marking them as property of the Goerings. Over on the right hand side are stock being prepared for sale either at local auction or, more likely, at auctions all over the world. Stock being sold are 'wards' now of age, current slaves getting a little old for the Goerings' tastes, all the female 'wards' produced here, and the latest products of the Goerings' breeding barns here. All told, about 50 a day are shipped out or about 21,000 slaves a year just from this estate alone."
"Twenty-one thousand?" the Greek ship builder exclaimed.
"Yes," Brent replied. "Slaves are the biggest crop here at the estate. All the other crops are just to keep us busy, although I assume there is a big profit in those crops as well. But nothing like slaves, master."
"Master Dieter's sales of slaves are running around 1.7 billion dollars a year now," Rodney said. "That's a lot of money, even for the Goerings I would wager."
"You're damn right that's a lot of money coming in," the Greek ship builder responded. "You know how many ships I have to build to make money like that?"
"It's obvious you should forget making freighters and concentrate on buying and selling who you have making the ships, you Greek rascal," the guest next to him said.
"Well, I do that too," the Greek master laughed, "but not to the tune of 1.7 billion a year."
"Yeah, but you're not a Goering either. They've been in the business of buying and selling slaves for over a 1000 years now. By now, they should know what they're doing," the fellow guest commented.
"They do know what they're doing, master," Brent interjected. "Look at Rodney and I and think how much we'll bring when Master Dieter decides to reluctantly part with us."
"More likely laughing all the way to that bank, more than happy to be rid of your endless babble and smart talk," the Greek ship builder chuckled. "But you too are something else again - you're so outrageous it's hard for me to think of you as slaves."
"Ah, see Rodney, our strategy works," Brent laughed hilariously. "But, before you completely forget our status, anyone interested in that little rest stop we promised where you'll get to see the other band we were talking about and perhaps give us something to shut our mouths around?"
"Hopeless," a previously mute guest spoke up from the midsection. "But I bet they'd bring well over one hundred grand each if they up for sale."
"Is that all?" Rodney said in mock indignation. "I expect to bring at least $145,000 when Master Dieter decides to sell me."
The electric bus continued on its tour, now well into the area where all estate staff were kept totally naked and were most interesting to look at, until finally they were back at the front door of the manor house.
"Well, our little tour is over and Rodney and I hope you have enjoyed it," Brent said. "But, before you leave, we promised you'd get to see our other band, so here it is." With that Rodney, now out of the driver's seat and Brent both removed their clinging shorts and thrust their banded genitals, fully erect, out for everyone to see.
"No wonder you two bulge out so well in those tight shorts of yours," a passenger said. "Most anyone would fitted with a ring that thick."
"Yes, master," Brent replied, thrusting out even more, "but it helps if there is plenty to ring to start with."
"These fit so tight, master, we've got a few callouses on our balls," Rodney added. "Would you like to feel how tight the ring is fitted, master?"
"No thanks," the guest said, obvious disinterested in playing with the slave's sex at the time.
Both Brent and Rodney realized quickly none of Dieter Goering's guests on the bus that afternoon seemed to be terribly interested in their display, let along using them for their sexual pleasure right then and there..
"Oh, masters," Brent pleaded, "at least let us suck you a while in preparation for the return to your own pleasure slaves, or perhaps milk us just for the fun of it?"
"We're begging you, masters," Rodney added. "If none of you use our mouth or our ass or even so little as stroking us a bit for your amusement, Brent and I aren't going to get any supper and probably a few strokes of the rod to encourage us to sell ourselves better. You masters wouldn't want to see two of the most interesting slaves you've ever met go to bed with an empty stomach, now would you?"
"You just want to drain our balls for your supper," a guest from California chuckled, "and I'm not falling for it, especially when I think of Dieter's harem slaves I can use the minute I get back in the manor house. But I'll tell you what I'll do just so you don't feel totally worthless. One of you can suck me until I'm good and hard for one of Dieter's harem boys, so just a bit, mind you, in that I sure as hell don't want to be drained right before those beauties of his are made available to me once again. And, because I'm a really nice master, I'll milk the prick of whoever isn't sucking me off. Tell you what. I'll milk Rodney since he's already dripping all over the place, and Brent, you can suck me for a while."
"Thank you, thank you, master," Brent and Rodney both exclaimed as they quickly positioned themselves for the American's use of their bodies. The other guests either enjoyed the little display or began scuffling around the threesome for the exit, taking full advantage of the opportunity to stroke and fondle the slaves' bodies as they were doing so..
"Don't forget to take anything you may have brought with you," Rodney said cheerily as he was being milked by the American guest.
"And if you don't want to fuck us in the bus, which is sort of crude, you can take us back to your guest suites to fuck. It won't hurt the damn bus to sit here for a while," Rodney added as he again thrust his sex out for all to enjoy as the American vigorously stroked him.
Brent nor Rodney got only that one guest to use them that afternoon in the bus and no one took up their invitation to take them to their own private suite in the manor house. But most of the guests did stroke some part of their body, pull on a ringed tit, or probe their ass hole as they exited. The two slaves managed to thank each guest for their attention during the tour as well as feeling their bodies right then.
But they understood why no one fucked them or asked them to suck them off. Why would they when awaiting them in the manor house were their own well-rested pleasure slaves as well as Dieter's fabled harem boys at their disposal. And, even with just the American guest using them just a little, they would escape a good whipping that night, but knew there would be no dinner for them. Tour guides like them only got fed when a minimum of half of the guests had either fucked them or had them suck them off during the tour itself.
Those were the rules and they seemed fair enough. It was just hard when the tour bus was filled with guests who were completely drained when they boarded the bus.
"Hell, Rodney, we can't compete with the meat they brought with them," Brent said philosophically. The American stroking him hadn't even brought him off to a orgasm in his eagerness to get back in the manor house and the pleasure slaves awaiting him there.
"Or with Dieter's harem," Rodney replied, who, as instructed, had not been rewarded with the privilege of swallowing the American's own load.
With that, they drove the electric bus back to its garage and began thoroughly cleaning it as they thought about their scheduled time at the estate's training center the next day where they knew they'd be expected to fuck new arrivals until they were totally exhausted as part of the new slaves' initial training routine. Later in the week, they'd probably be fucked themselves by one of the house stewards and an overseer or two. Just a routine week.
The two probably wouldn't be scheduled to conduct another tour until, at the earliest, the following weekend.
NEXT: SOME OTHER GOERING OPERATIONS
[Feedback is essential for a developing story. Forward your comments and suggestions to the author, Bill Smith, at anonymous4371@juno.com if the story is to continue]