Someone once told me, "Never put a woman away wet." Well, I'm all about breaking rules and it was about to reap dividends.

She hung naked in a slightly stooped seated posture, trussed and suspended from two ropes in the gallery space, just the toes of one foot able to dust the floor. Two diametrically opposed softlights cast haloed shadows beneath her; one deep red, one soft white, representing the convergence of heaven and hell in which she drifted.

I'd fastened the first line to the intricate brace of knots that formed a lattice across her back where her wrists were secured. The bonds threaded from there around to the butterfly harness accentuating her perky white breasts, and down to wrap her waist and thighs.

The second rope picked up the criss-crossed leg bindings where they clamped her knees together. The support itself formed a pleasing, uninterrupted extension of the angle her lower legs made, from ballerina toes all the way to the pulley in the rafters.

I love using rope as a language; a communication tool that demonstrates connection. Shibari isn't just knots and bonds, it's form, anticipation, drama and sex.

When we designed the piece, Emilia requested the most delicate balance I could muster. Something that would show off both inner and external beauty, framed by the unforgiving bite of the bindings.

The beak of the bird inked on her thigh bulged slightly between a pair of rope loops. Every inch of flesh on display was electrifying. I'd barely been able to control myself while I worked, brushing her goosebumps that surfaced as each knot took shape.

She was endlessly patient. I kept her fed and hydrated as I tied, threaded, and arranged. Neither of us noticed the hours slipping by. The anticipation of needing to ravage one another fuelled the electricity of the piece.

Each loop, each bowline had to be perfect. It had to match her posture, her skin, the oaky wave of hair that partially obscured her face. It had to accentuate her incredible beauty. Draw attention to it but not overwhelm. She was the centrepiece; the showcase that embodied purity and sin, allure and innocence, modesty and fuckability.

Tying the final knot, I stood back and fluttered inside. Flicked the switch on the remote to winch her into position, then shut it off. The mechanical clack rolled away in the cavernous space. Just her and chiaroscuro remained.

My heart skipped. God I wanted her. Everyone would. I circled, checking each curve, every junction between rope and skin. Her breath hitched each time I brushed. The marks would fade in time, but the experience and effect on her glistening pussy would linger.

And I would feast.

As she shifted in the limited amount of freedom I permitted, fresh pearly drops of arousal formed and gently snaked their way onto her inner thighs. They joined other crooked paths in various states of drying. Diaphanous droplets stretched beneath her under the influence of gravity, snapping to puddle on the rich wood veneer. I licked my lips.

The media have described my art as anything from edgy and dramatic to ostentatious and flamboyant. Certainly many found The Halal Painter hard to interpret, its carcass hung on a spike connected to a machine that rocked it above a huge sheet of paper as the animal bled out. The pattern it drew represented its life ebbing, and how it viewed itself in death. Many critics missed the point.

With Living Art, I set out to shock and excite, titillate and amaze. To highlight the synergy between desire and self-control, freedom and restraint.

Emilia hadn't managed restraint so well earlier, writhing and arching her hips, my mouth fastened to her bare cunt. Bunching the sheets in her fists, she released a torrent of syllables as her orgasm crested and I slurped every exquisite drop.

While she quaked in rapture, I crawled up, shared a juice-laden kiss, and plunged inside.

We fucked. Animalistic, unbridled lust tearing at the space between our bodies. She crossed her ankles behind my jackhammering, and I pinned her shoulders to the bed, lost in the emerald opulence of her glazed expression as she mewled and came again, clutching at my buried, pulsing length. I groaned in her ear, breathing laboured.

That was the prelude. We had hurriedly dressed and jumped in the car to the gallery while my cum dripped and oozed from her shaved slit. I aimed to bottle and expose the desire that lined her thighs and slick lips as I threaded the rope between them, capturing her slippery clit either side of a pair of bindings. Every time she shifted, the friction would bring agony and relief, trapped in an endless cycle of need and release; constantly on edge for the exhibit's two-hour duration.

I smiled. Nothing creates demand like scarcity.

Stepping in, I skimmed her jaw with a fingertip. Traced a downward line, taking in the chicane of her midriff. Further. Curving beneath her, I dragged my digit through her folds and paused.

"God, you're wet."

She nodded, desire welling. Bit her lip. "Please."

The breathy word was loaded with urgency. I sawed back and forth, nudging her clit. The gasp transformed to a moan, carrying the syllable on its cusp. "Pleeease."

I leaned in and scuffed my lips to her ear. "Soon."

Withdrawing my finger, I held it between our faces, mere inches apart. Her scent hung like she did. A thick, heady miasma I craved. My already engorged cock swelled, straining my trousers. I licked my finger and moaned.

Across the expanse of the gallery, the security guard's footsteps tapped. Measured. Metronomic. The click of the catch preceded the excited hubbub of the crowd beyond as they surged inside. Journalists, movers and shakers in the art world and members of the public swarmed to fill the space, clamouring to idolise my latest creation.

I fidgeted, steeled and whipped the cover off the nearby A-board sign: Please touch the exhibit.