The White Juice

The boys decide to experiment. This is a non-sense story meant for comedic relief.

A group of 14 years old boys live in complete isolation from the world. As long as they remember, they live in a secret underground bunker. It has everything they need to live happily. They never met other humans and doesn't even know there is a whole wide world out there. They are free to do whatever they want during the day, but there is one daily routine: Every morning the boys are required to stand in front of "The Holes" - a wall lined with small holes in it. The boys are required to put their dicks inside the holes and cum.

One night, the boys gather to discuss what is the purpose of the daily routine and what is the "White Juice" (their nickname for sperm) is used for. They decide to experiment. This is a non-sense story meant for comedic relief.

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The dim glow of the bunker’s fluorescent strips hummed overhead as the boys gathered in their common room, a messy space littered with cushions, half-finished puzzles, and a perpetually flickering lamp they’d nicknamed “Old Blinky.” It was late—after the evening meal of reconstituted pasta and the mandatory game of “Guess the Sound” (they were terrible at it). Tonight, though, there was a different energy in the air.

“Alright, listen up,” said Marcus, the self-appointed leader because he’d once found a button that did nothing. “We’ve been doing The Holes every morning for… forever. But why? What’s the point of the White Juice? And where does it even go?”

A murmur rippled through the group of ten. They ranged from scrawny to pudgy, all wearing identical gray shorts and tank tops, the bunker’s only wardrobe. Nobody had ever questioned The Holes before. It was just part of life, like the recycled air and the strange humming from the walls at night.

“Maybe it’s food for something,” offered Leo, a boy with freckles and a perpetually runny nose. “Like, the Holes are mouths, and we’re feeding the bunker.”

“Bunkers don’t eat, dummy,” said Ethan, the tallest, who was also the biggest because he ate three servings of pasta. “I think it’s for lubrication. You know, for the machinery. Machines need oil.”

“But we never see any machines,” piped up Simon, who wore glasses held together with tape. “And the White Juice doesn’t smell like oil. It smells like… like bleach and old cheese.”

A collective groan. They all knew that smell. It clung to the morning air for hours.

“Enough guessing!” Marcus clapped his hands. “Tonight, we’re going to experiment. We’re going to make our own White Juice - on purpose - and test its properties. Each of us picks one experiment. Winner gets to sit in the big chair for a whole week.”

The big chair was a throne-like recliner that didn’t recline. It was the ultimate prize.

Thus began the Great White Juice Experimentation Night.
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Experiment #1: Simon the Botanist

Simon’s idea was simple: “The white juice must be plant food. There’s a pot of soil in the hydroponics bay, and nothing ever grows in it. Maybe this is the secret ingredient.”

He returned with a small ceramic pot filled with dry dirt, placed it on the floor, and knelt in front of it. The other boys formed a semicircle, some giggling, others leaning in with serious faces.

Simon took a deep breath, stroked his small, pale dick until it stiffened, and aimed directly into the pot. A single, thick glob of white shot out with a wet splat against the soil. “There! Now we wait.”

They waited. Ten minutes. Twenty.

Nothing.

“Maybe it needs more,” Ethan suggested.

Simon obliged, giving the pot three more deposits, grunting with effort. The soil now looked like a lumpy, glistening pie. Still nothing. No sprout. No green. No life.

“Conclusion!” Marcus announced dramatically. “The white juice is NOT plant food. It is a soil destroyer. You killed that dirt, Simon.”

Simon hung his head. “I’m sorry, dirt.”

Experiment #2: Leo the Cosmetician

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Leo had read a comic book—one of the few preserved in the bunker’s library—where a woman rubbed a mysterious cream on her face and became “radiant.” He reasoned that the white juice might be an ancient beauty treatment.

“I’m going to apply it to my skin,” Leo declared, already stroking himself to attention. “Like a lotion.”

“You’re going to put it on your face?” asked Marcus, eyebrow raised.

“No, duh, on my hand first. I’m not stupid.”

He ejaculated into his palm, a stringy, warm puddle. Then, with a solemn expression, he spread it over the back of his other hand, rubbing it in like hand sanitizer. It dried quickly to a tacky film.

“It feels… tight,” Leo said, flexing his fingers. “Kind of like glue. But my skin looks shinier, don’t you think?”

The boys leaned in. Leo’s hand did have a faint gleam, but it also looked a little red and irritated.

“It’s going to burn your skin off,” whispered Thomas, the smallest and most paranoid. “We’re all going to dissolve.”

Leo panicked and wiped his hand frantically on his shorts. “It stings! It stings now!”

He ran to the sink to wash it off. When he returned, his hand was blotchy and smelled faintly of bleach.

“Conclusion,” Marcus said, scribbling imaginary notes in the air. “White juice is NOT skincare. It is an irritating adhesive. Do not put on body.”

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Experiment #3: Ethan the Engineer

Ethan, being the biggest, believed the white juice had mechanical applications. “It’s obviously a lubricant or a sealant,” he said. “Watch.”

He retrieved an old, squeaky hinge from a junk drawer—a relic from some long-forgotten cabinet. He set it on the table, then proceeded to masturbate directly onto the hinge’s pivot point. Thick, warm ropes of cum coated the metal, dripping down the sides.

He then tried to swing the hinge open and closed. It stuck. It gummed up. It made a wet, squelching sound instead of a clean swing.

“It’s not lubricating,” Simon observed. “It’s more like… glue.”

Ethan’s face fell. “Maybe it needs more.” He added another load, then tried again. The hinge refused to move at all now, sealed solid.

“You’ve destroyed a perfectly good hinge,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “Conclusion: White juice is a powerful adhesive. Use with caution.”

Ethan sulked, the hinge now a sticky paperweight.

Experiment #4: Thomas the Nutritionist

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Thomas, the paranoid one, had a different theory. “The white juice looks like a kind of condensed milk. Maybe it’s a food supplement. Like the paste we eat, but more… pure.”

He produced a small spoon from the kitchen and, with trembling hands, masturbated into a cup, producing a modest amount. He stared at it.

“You’re not actually going to eat it, are you?” Leo asked, horrified.

“Science requires sacrifice,” Thomas said, voice shaky. He dipped a finger in, sniffed it, made a face—then licked it.

The room went dead silent.

Thomas’s eyes widened. He gagged. His face twisted into a mask of regret. “It’s… salty. And bitter. And… goopy. And it tastes like regret.”

He spat repeatedly into a napkin.

“Conclusion,” Marcus declared, struggling not to laugh. “White juice is NOT a food group. Do not ingest. It is a punishment flavor.”

Thomas spent the next ten minutes chugging water.

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Experiment #5: Marcus the Philosopher

“I’ve been thinking,” Marcus said, stroking his chin with an air of faux wisdom. “Perhaps the white juice is a form of currency. We exchange it with the Holes, and in return, the bunker provides us with necessities. It’s a transaction.”

“So you want to… trade it for something?” Simon asked.

“Exactly. I’m going to deposit into this empty glass bottle,” Marcus held up a clean jar, “and then I’ll leave it in the Holes room overnight. Tomorrow, we’ll see if the bunker has left us a reward.”

He performed the act with practiced ease, filling the jar about a quarter full. He sealed it, then marched to the Holes room and placed it on a small shelf next to the wall.

“And now we wait.”

The next morning, the jar was still there. No reward. No note. Just a jar of congealing, yellowish liquid.

“Conclusion,” Marcus said, trying to save face. “The bunker is on strike. Or maybe the white juice is counterfeit. We need better grade product.”

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The Final Ridiculous Conclusion

After four more failed experiments—including an attempt to use white juice as a hair gel (it hardened into a crusty helmet), a failed experiment to power a light bulb (it just shorted the wires), and a disastrous attempt to use it as a toothpaste (Thomas threw up again)—the boys collapsed in a heap of laughter and absurdity.

None of them had even come close to the truth: that the white juice was destined for some mad scientist’s collection, or maybe a alien feeding tube, or whatever the hell the bunker’s hidden purpose was. But they didn’t care anymore.

“I think,” Leo said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “the White Juice is actually just… a joke. A big, sticky, smelly joke on all of us.”

“Maybe it’s a game,” Simon added. “Like, we’re supposed to find the funniest use for it.”

Marcus grinned, throwing an arm around Ethan’s sticky shoulder. “Alright, listen up. New rule: Friday nights are White Juice Experiment Nights. We’ll try dumber stuff every time.”

A cheer went up.

And somewhere, deep in the bunker’s ventilation, a tiny camera lens blinked red—watching, recording, probably regretting its programming. But the boys didn’t notice. They were too busy planning next week’s experiment: Can White Juice hold a piece of toast to the ceiling?

Only one way to find out...