Claude Deneuve was not a memorable person.
If one were to pass him in the street or even sit next to him on a train they would not find him interesting enough to even start a conversation beyond "Hello" "Goodbye" "Excuse me" and a simple "thank you".
Claude had only one special skill that set him apart from the millions of French citizens that populated the City of Love. He was absolutely irreplaceable to the firm of Beauchamp, DeLorean and Sons, LTD, purveyors of fine perfumes formulated in the basement of the mysterious Doctor Henri Bordeau.
Claude was a "Nose man".
He was not a Norseman or Norman or a Noisy man.
He was just a simple "nose man" with the ability to pinpoint the ingredients of any formula or special concoction in a matter of seconds. His nose was famous in the perfume trade. Only a weird Russian Orthodox priest from Vladivostok possessed similar abilities and he was only lent out for projects of extremely short duration. The man's consumption of vodka was the lore of many stories, mostly untrue.
Claude was divorced from his wife of 22 years.
It was not a friendly divorce. Claude had discerned the scent of cured leather hanging sensuously from his wife's private parts on more than one occasion and he was able to identify it as the key material used by the designer handbag maker Simon De Gaulle. He confirmed his suspicion by dropping by the De Gaulle Studios on a rainy Friday afternoon. The scent was strong on all the work benches causing poor Claude to almost gag on the aroma overkill. A quick peek into the back room revealed Claude's wife Fifi bent over the large work table with Simon's sizable set of tools giving her fully stretched slit a complete tune up from behind. The leather was already stained with the sticky juice of Fifi's copious emissions.
Claude realized the combination of the Leather material and Simon's reliance on an inexpensive American brand cologne led him to this exact spot.
His highly developed olfactory sense was a curse as well as a blessing.
His newest assignment was to attend some fashion week parties and discover the most favored scents of the rich and famous. His firm would then duplicate the secret formulas to offer the preferred scents to the masses. In a sense, it was a form of industrial espionage, but only in the most discreet of ways and difficult to pinpoint even if suspicion was aroused.
Claude was preparing to leave for the first party when his daughter Dominique came down the stairs in a short dress with some dangerous cleavage visible on top. It was not the dress that dismayed him; it was the liberal dosing of her female parts with her mother's expensive perfume that filled him with fears of her endangered virginity. The exotic scents wafted up from beneath her dress with an age old lure of perfume and female heat blended into irresistible signals of unfulfilled sexual desire.
As a father he wanted to restrict her to her room, but as a man he realized it would be to no avail. He kissed her on the forehead and told her,
"Watch out for those boys and be very careful!"
As soon as Claude entered the main ballroom of the party, he was met with a wall of female scents. He could smell young pussy and old pussy. He could discern which of the females had sex recently and which ones were long dormant. Sometimes the secrets his nose told him surprised him and convinced him you could never "tell a book by its cover".
There were four dominant perfume scents that seemed to be used by about 90% of the females present. There were a few oddball scents that he took longer to analyze but he soon had them all figured out.
One young girl gave off a scent of fresh clean pussy untouched by any perfume scent. It was so strange that he approached her and asked her for a dance so he could inhale her up real close and personal. The girl was in her mid-twenties and hesitated before accepting his request to dance. Claude assumed it was because he was obviously in his forties and a generation older. The girl's lithe body molded into his and he inhaled her essence. It was absolutely intoxicating. He didn't even know this pretty girl's name and he had fallen in love with her scent already.
While they danced he introduced himself and found out that she was the daughter of the host, the honorable Renee Dupassant. Judge Dupassant to be more precise. Her name was Bridget and she laughed with a bright chuckle when he mispronounced it more than once.
Claude was unable to deter his normally passive member from noticeably rising as he rubbed sensuously up close to the young girl's body. They swayed slowly in the middle of the dance floor and he was entranced at the way her soft legs trapped his member between them. Somehow, she was able to stroke his engorged cock with her legs as they danced innocently on the crowded floor. He was almost on the verge of spurting out his seeds when he distinctly inhaled the full glorious scent of aroused female emissions from the young girl in his arms. She might look innocent and appear like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth but this girl was trembling with erotic desire in his arms.
They sat on a discreet love seat near the open door patio to get some fresh air. His curiosity was so aroused that he asked the sweet Bridget if she had a scent that she favored. The young girl blushed and whispered in his ear,
"I couldn't find my last bottle of Paris number "9" so I only used good old soap and water. I hope I don't offend you with my lack of perfume."
Claude laughed and confided in Bridget that he found her "au natural" scent delightful. It was, after all, the simple truth. They toured the family gallery and she pulled him into an alcove allowing him to cup and explore her tender breast. The taste of her nipple was so exciting that he felt the ooze of pre-cum saturate his boxer shorts.
When two older women moved down the corridor, they pulled apart and they pretended to be studying the inscription on one of the paintings on the wall. He could tell from the smile on the younger woman's face they were not fooling anyone.