This morning I popped down to Pret a Manger to meet up with my good friend Albert Einstein for a slice of red velvet cake with a vanilla butter-icing topping and a medium cappuccino on the side. "Albert Einstein," I hear you say in a somewhat incredulous tone. Yes, Albert Einstein! THE Albert Einstein. I gave you all a perfect opportunity to invite me out for a yummy little Pret-fest back in Dr Flappyduck, but did any of you offer? Did you fuck, so it's just me and Albie yet again for our regular Thursday tete-a-tete. 

Once we'd complimented each other on our moustaches and mad scientist lockdown hairstyles, Albie said to me, "CG", and I am going to put this in quotation marks because its a direct quote, "people like us who believe in physics know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." Well, he'd taken the words right out of my mouth because that very morning I'd received a WhatsApp message from Captain Stocking begging for my assistance. None of which was much of a surprise given my worldwide reputation for giving super-doopery advice on all matters erotica-ery. What was a tad unusual was that Captain Stocking was currently hanging out his washing on the Maginot Line en la France whilst keeping the dastardly Nazi Hun at bay in 1940.

So really, I was quite pleased to learn that this small difficulty was nothing more than "a stubbornly persistent illusion" and in no way was likely to shatter the carefully crafted 'suspension of disbelief' contract between author and saddo. Which all would have been spiffing and top hole if Albie hadn't gone and pointed out that they didn't have WhatsApp in 1940, that this was anachronistic and, persistent illusion or no persistent illusion, was a complete fuck up of a plot device. 

I'm a little sad to report, dear saddos, that I had myself a bit of a hissy fit, a teensy-weensy strop, with just a touch of huffy hysterics, and that maybe, just maybe, crockery shards and coffee dregs were sent skittering and splattering across the floor. When did everyone suddenly become a critic for The Literary Review? 'Unwieldy plot devices', 'no discernible story', 'unsexy and unbelievable', 'artsy, conceited, self-aggrandising, obnoxious shit'; and those are the publishable comments. Honestly, people! They're just some fun-sized, amateur erotica stories. They're not the translation committee text for The King James Bible or a draft wording for an all-encompassing Middle East Peace Accord.

But I digress. 

None of this was really Albie's fault, and he had been so helpful with the time illusion thingy, so my behaviour was just a touch inappropriate. But, thankfully, we've reached that point in these things where I say it's time to go 'to the letter'. Yippee. 

Dear Ms Girl,

I write you with a certain expectation in mind, and in my deepest of hearts, I hope that you can help me in my quest for relief; no, not that kind of relief, well not today anyway, though if the future is kind to us then maybe I could fulfil those dark fantasies that I know you harbour.

My thoughts seem permanently focused on a single issue that both concerns and frightens me. I do hope you can help in more ways than one. Part of me is scared to reveal my thoughts to you, but I must do this if I am to be freed. My life depends on it, and yet…

Stockings! 

There, I’ve done it. You now know of my plight and I’m convinced your mind will fill in all the necessary gaps.

I love wearing them. I love how they feel against my skin and how my legs tingle when cold air brushes past them as I walk. I love the fact that I need to wear a suspender belt to hold them up and love how that feels as the straps tighten against my bottom and then there are the lace panties that I have bought to hold my private bits in place; all of these you understand purchased as a surprise present for my wife that will not be joining her hosiery collection.

For some time now, I have been relishing in the thought of dressing fully as a woman and would love to display my charms to the world, in your company, if you will have me. But that is not the reason that I pen this letter to you today.

I no longer possess my stockings and I am bereft. I have felt more and more depressed without them, but in this day and age, what with the war and all that, good quality silk is rare on the open market, especially here, in France. Of course, it is all my own fault; I shouldn’t have worn them under my camouflage trousers out on patrol and whilst struggling through that damned barb-wire, what with Jerry shooting at us. Subsequently, I discovered that they had been severely laddered in several places. I am beside myself with grief.

Of course, I immediately thought of you. I thought that with your persuasive manner, you may be lucky to acquire a few good samples of silkiness from those visiting Americans you so eagerly entertain, or so I’ve been led to believe. I would pay you handsomely for these, of course, and would never leave you out of pocket.

Panties are my second concern for I cannot find a pair that contains my large member without looking obvious. I have tried, but as soon as I start reacting to the soldiers out on parade, the bulge gets too large and the lace panties only make my girly appearance look comical. Suffice it to say that they are also no good in containing all that lovely liquid of your namesake. Of course, I crave a device that could be used to make my appendage into that of a girl. Though, bending it into shape and having the tip of my pride-and-joy so close to my rear entrance concerns me somewhat.

My final concern is that of the French family that is housing us. I haven’t been caught out yet, but on one such occasion, I had to quickly undress and put on my uniform while locked in the toilet because the lady of the house was seeking my attention. This all came down to a stolen dress and lingerie, but they were the only replacements I could find for some quick satisfaction. Should I tell them of my leanings? Of my hopes at the end of this damn war?

I hope that you can help my various predicaments and I await your considered response.

Always your humble servant,

Captain Quentin Stocking

My billet is currently the Bas et Culottes farmhouse just west of Lille in France, on the Maginot line.

Dear Captain Stocking

I'm fuming. What an utter disgrace. How could this so-called Government of National Unity send our brave boys off to defend King and Empire without providing them with the necessary equipment to fulfil their duty or keep their substantial members suitably encased? I have written post-haste to Lord Beaverbrook, the Minister for War Production, and informed him that not only is he a very naughty boy, but that unless he addresses this issue immediately he won't be brooking any more Cum Girly beaver in the near future. 

Just the other evening, I was having dinner at Nancy Mitford and Oswald Mosley's and they were loudly informing the gathered throng of 1920's Bright Young Things that their dear friend Dr 'Gobby' Goebbels had guaranteed that every Nazi Stormtrooper would be receiving a lifetime's supply of Falke hosiery and that 'Benny' Mussolini had instructed Calzedonia to make their entire supply available to the Italian Armed Forces. Well, if the state won't provide for our brave troops, then it is up to us concerned private citizens to fill the breach, though I do fear that this might be as effective as sticking cellotape across the gusset of a pair of crotchless panties. 

Please find enclosed my entire Princesse Tam Tam collection. I'm afraid a few of the panties might have cunny juice soiling, but as your need is greater than mine, I felt it best to rush them out to you ASAP. As you will note on inspection, these all come in lingerie sets with three pairs of panties per titty holder. I can't remember whether you requested titty holders but let's be honest, if you're going to look fabulous, then you need to do so head to toe. No, don't thank me, it's the least I can do. Besides, with all those over-paid, over-sexed, and over-here Yankee Doodle Dandies due to arrive in about eighteen months time I won't be having much need for cunty coverage.

I have also enclosed every single item of hosiery from my personal collection. These mostly consist of hold-ups and over-knee socks, though I have thrown in a few pairs of frill-edged ankle socks for those days when you just have to express your inner young-but-definitely-sixteen-or-older girly-girl. You should also find an emergency eye-liner pencil. In the event of a total hosiery meltdown, you can use this to draw a single line up the back of each leg to give the impression of seamed stockings. And, as Albie has pointed out in the forward to this letter that you won't have read, illusion and actuality are pretty much the same things. 

I am concerned that given that my taste in lingerie tends to the itty-bitty-aint-it-pretty that your proud, upright member of Britishness may not receive adequate lacey concealment. I have, therefore, also sent a cock cage. This will keep it happily subdued and quite safe from stray bullets. I felt it was best if I kept the key but do feel free to pop round when you get back from your seashore paddle at Dunkirk and we can have a nice little chat about its future use and security and explore my docking and harbouring arrangements. 

As for your French hosts, you really shouldn't concern yourself with their opinions. Not only are they not British and therefore lacking in anything resembling proper breeding, but I have a feeling that your stay with them might be brief—more of a long weekend than an extended vacation. 

Finally, just to say, that although we all enjoy something in lightweight fabrics that clings and accentuates all those enticing curves and bumps, the fashion this year is very much khaki serge. Even Princesses Liz and Maggie are wearing it for their day jobs as truck drivers. Though whoever let a lush like Maggie loose with a four-tonner must be out of their tiny mind. 

Stay safe. Be fabulous. 

Hugs. 

Cum Girl (Mrs)