Jacqueline Ophir's latest full-length novel, partly a work of imagination and part autobiographical, tells the story of Miss Leah B., who, while still in her early twenties, is obliged,by Fate, as it seems, to confront the reality of her inclinations when she disciplines a rowdy youth in the street. Soon afterwards she receives a letter from a distraught mother asking for help of a similar nature--and so begins an extraordinary career as A Perfect Mistress.

An exquisitely written work, gorgeously illustrated throughout by the incomparable Sardax with nine full-size watercolour plates and a large number of sensitive motifs.

An excerpt from the book:

"I shall use a hairbrush," I announced. "And you will get twenty strokes, not ten. Is that fair?"
"Yes, miss."
"You can bend over that table there."
He turned his head to look.
"Stand up. Move over to the table." I watched as he obeyed quietly. "Stay there," I said, rising in my turn. "I'm going to fetch the hairbrush." I left the drawing-room on light feet and flitted swiftly upstairs to my own room. I picked up the mahogany hairbrush with the silver L monogram on the back. It felt light and rigid in my hand. I went back down the drawing-room. Edwin was still standing mutely by the table, apparently examining its grain.

"Everything else about your punishment," I said, "will be as your mother would wish. Do you understand? Good. Then please let down your trousers as quickly as you can."
I had half-expected protest at this point but without hesitation his hands went to his waistband. He kept his face and body demurely turned away from me. I watched in prim silence as he unfastened his braces behind. I saw the bobbing elbows that meant he was undoing the front trouser-../buttons. The grey trousers began to slip. They slithered to his knees. He drooped sadly in his jacket and shirt-tails. I was annoyed with myself for forgetting the coat. Ideally I should have made him take it off first, because now it was in the way­­unless I folded it right back. I decided on this latter course, and told Edwin to bend over the table and grasp the far edge.
He did so. I stepped forward and lifted the skirt of his grey jacket. I draped it halfway up his back­­I would have turned it over his head but the front button was still fastened and prohibited such a manoeuvre. He made not a sound, not a move.

The shirt-tail came next. I tucked this under the folded jacket.

The underpants were quite long in the leg, and very white and clean. They made him look absurdly young. I paused for a long moment. In my mind's eye I saw myself reaching for the waistband and pulling them down; that was what his mother did, at least some of the time.
I left the pants where they were. Next time, I told myself.
I took a deep breath and raised the hairbrush to align it.
He was trembling. I found this delightful.
"Twenty," I said, "of the best.
"Beginning..."
Now!